Nantucket Five-Spot (9 page)

Chapter Eight

The Interrogation

The room was air conditioned, presumably for the convenience of the inquisitors. A tape recorder was running.

“So, as I was saying,” Tornovitch said. “Your father was a member in good standing in the Monkey Wrench Society. Yes or no?””

“The what?”

“The Monkey Wrench Society, Mr. Delavane. ”

“Do you mean
The Monkey Wrench Gang
? It's a novel by Edward Abbey.”

“I've read it. The book concerns a group of what you might call guerilla conservationists. The kind of people who spike redwood trees to kill loggers.”

“What's the point? That my dad read it? He read a lot of books.”

Tornovitch leaned across the table. “I'm saying your father was part of a real organization on this island, dedicated to Edward Abbey's ideals. I'm saying your father consistently attempted to sabotage the renovation and restoration of this island by Walter Beinecke—”

Billy snorted. “Green stamps.”

“Excuse me?”

“My grandmother despised Beinecke. She used to mutter ‘green stamps' under her breath every time she passed him on the street. Remember green stamps? Collect them and paste them into books, turn them in for overpriced junk? That was where Beinecke's money came from.”

“And this little feud explains why your father disabled Mr. Beinecke's construction vehicles, picked fights with his construction foremen, filed lawsuits—”

“He short-sheeted Beinecke's bed, too. And tied his shoelaces together.”

“Then there were the fires.”

Billy straightened in his chair. Tornovitch had touched a nerve. “My father was no arsonist, buddy.”

“But his friends were—his chums at the Wharf Rats Club. The fires did very little damage and the story was hushed up. But a felony is a felony, however incompetently executed. Your father turned his friends in for immunity from prosecution. I have the court documents, if you want to look them over.”

“Those records were sealed.”

“We unsealed them. We keep the secrets now, Mr. Delavane. We don't share that privilege.”

Billy pushed the heel of his hand across his forehead. This was what I had tried to warn him about. “So you've been rooting through my dad's court case, digging up all the dirt, smearing him with this bullshit—”

“It's not bullshit, Mr. Delavane, as you well know. It was a cowardly betrayal of his values and his friends that ruined his life and led directly to his worsening alcoholism and—five years later—his suicide. He left no note. But I think these depositions say it all.”

“Fuck you.”

Billy lunged across the table and I saw why Daly and Knightley were in the room. They were primed to attack and when the moment came they moved fast, Daly slamming Billy back into his chair, Knightley immobilizing him with a headlock. Still, both Tornovitch and Franny flinched backward.

“We're not here to talk about your father,” Franny said. She looked at Knightley. “Let him go. Joseph—let him go now.”

Knightley released Billy's neck and he gasped for breath, clutching at his throat.

“Try that sometime without all your friends around, asshole,” Billy said.

“Anytime, dirtbag.”

Tornovitch held out an admonishing hand, like a traffic cop.

“Back off, Knightley. Mr. Delavane hasn't been convicted of any crime…though he just came perilously close to assault on a police officer.” He smiled and a low wattage chuckle moved through the room, Maybe it was just people releasing the breath they'd been holding. “In any case, Mr. Delavane, Agent Tate is quite correct. We're here to talk about you, not your father. More precisely, we'd like to explore the ways in which you have chosen to perpetuate this feud. Beinecke sold a major portion of his holdings to First Winthrop Corporation in 1987 for fifty million dollars. Two years ago Winthrop sold many of its holdings to Stephen Karp. Would you care to tell us what you think of the island's newest majority shareholder?”

Billy smiled. “Sure. He's an uneducated, New Jersey thug. He has no taste and no class. He makes Walter Beinecke look like John Muir. When he's done, this island will be nothing but bad art galleries, overpriced restaurants, and rich people sniffing each others' money. Then he'll move on to the next target. Wherever it is, I hope your family has a house there.”

After a brief pause, Tornovitch leaned forward and folded his hands on the table.

“On the contrary,” he said. “Mr. Karp is a respectable businessman, a pillar of the community and a dedicated humanitarian who has only the best interests and continued prosperity of this island at heart. Based on your comments, I think he would be entirely justified in suing you for slander. He might even win some of those crumbling properties of yours in the lawsuit. That would an entirely fitting outcome.”

Franny cleared her throat. Everyone turned to her. It felt rehearsed.

“You have something, Agent Tate?”

“Just…these comments correspond very closely to the confiscated e-mails.”

That got Billy's attention. “Confiscated e-mails? You confiscated my e-mails? Based on what?”

Tornovitch stared him down. “Based on our suspicions, the circumstantial evidence against you, and the powers mandated to the Department of Homeland Security by the Patriot Act, H.R. 3162, signed into law October 24, 2001.”

“This one, for instance,” Franny said. She pulled a loose-leaf notebook out of the briefcase beside her chair. She opened it and flipped through a few pages. “The trick is to make this place undesirable. People scatter boric acid in the crevices of their homes to keep out the cockroaches. But how do you keep out these bugs? It doesn't take much. Just find something they're afraid of. And everyone's afraid of a bomb.'”

Billy lurched forward and the two FBI agents slammed him back.

“I didn't write that last part!”

“How about this one,” Franny said, turning a page. “‘Edna was right, refusing to subdivide her property. She said to me once that's how the new people are taking over, subdivide and conquer. She knew it was a war. But she could never admit we needed real weapons to fight it.'”

“It's the same thing! It's been changed. Somebody got in there and—”

“But you were friendly with Edna Thayer,” Tornovitch said.

“What? What are you talking about? You're trying to drag Edna into this? How did you find out about her? How do you even know her name?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“Yes. We were friends. All right? Very good friends. I met her years ago, through—she was the mother of a girlfriend of mine, back in the day. But what does that have to do with anything? She's dead. Leave her out of this.”

Tornovitch chose to ignore the outburst. “Agent Tate?”

“There's one more post I wanted on the record.”

“Fine.”

She looked around the room apologetically. “This one is short. It says—“‘People are herd animals. They follow each other, do what the others do. That's why one frightened cow can scatter a herd. Paint a target on one of these people, the others will flee like mewling cattle.'”

Billy hit the table with the flat of his hand. Everyone jumped a little, except Daly and Knightley. They knew there was no real threat this time. “Come on!” Billy said. “This is bullshit. I never wrote that. Mewling? I've never used that word in my life.”

“Not in casual conversation,” Torrnovitch said. “Of course not. But this is your manifesto. The Unabomber never struck anyone as unusually articulate. Until they read his letter to the
New York Times.
”

“So I'm the Unabomber now?”

“Of course not,” Franny said. “But these e-mails present you as an angry man with a radical agenda. We have to address that.”

Billy blew out an exasperated breath. “Who was I supposed to have sent these e-mails to?”

“Cute,” said Tornovitch. “You now don't know where you sent your own e-mails?”

“I didn't even write them, so no, I really have no idea—”

“But you did write parts of them, the less incriminating parts.”

“I—”

“You'd be better off denying everything, Mr. Delavane.”

“The e-mails were sent to a Matthew Barton. The address is
[email protected]
.”

“There you go, Matt uses Gmail.”

“And hotmail, and an old one from his days in San Francisco—pacbell.net. Mr. Barton initially denied receiving the mail, but we showed him the aol inbox on his own computer and they were all there. All of them had been opened. He had no explanation for that, but he had to acknowledge that the sentiments sounded familiar.”

“Your friend isn't in trouble yet,” Tornovitch said. “He demonstrated a touching but misplaced loyalty which the department understands, but cannot condone. When he realizes the gravity of the matter he may find that his memory improves. That often happens. If it's any comfort, I assure you he won't be penalized for those initial conversations…so long as he comes clean when it matters, under oath.”

Billy straightened his arms behind him and stretched. “So, my dad was a troublemaker and you say I wrote some nasty e-mails. If that's all you've got, we're wasting our time. I have a staircase to build.”

Tornovitch cleared his throat, set his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers, and let his chin rest lightly on them. He looked like a bird eyeing a worm. “You're right,” he said. “This is dragging on. Let me summarize. On June twelfth of this year you purchased a voice changing telephone module online from a company called Viper Tech. We have the receipt and the card number. This is the machine that was used in the initial bomb threat phone call. It was found in the residence of one Corey Herrick…one of your known associates. Additionally, you do caretaking work for the Herrick family and had unlimited access to the house. You also have access to military explosives through your brother's Army connections. Despite apparent years of alienated affection, you have visited your brother four times in the last six months.”

“Okay,” Billy said. “I'm patching things up with my brother. That's not a crime. As for the rest of it…my wallet was stolen a couple of weeks ago. Obviously Corey Herrick took it and used one of my credit cards to buy this machine you're talking about. Then you find it at his house—and you blame me? Actually, it makes sense. You guys have a good track record for going after the wrong people.”

Franny put away her notebook and settled herself back in her chair. “Would you mind telling us where you were last night around ten o'clock?”

“I was home, asleep. Like most nights. I work for a living.”

Franny nodded, letting the wave of hostility surge past her. “Is there anyone who could verify your whereabouts at that time? Your girlfriend—Abigail Folger? Would she be willing to testify that—”

“Abby was off-island last night. As you know.”

“Our surveillance team saw you leaving the house at 9:25,” Tornovitch broke in. “You climbed into your truck and drove away.”

“No I didn't.”

“Then how do you explain this surveillance report?”

“That's supposed to be your job, pal. I was asleep.”

“So…some unknown malefactor…presumably the same diabolical computer genius who has been doctoring your e-mails…this person slipped into your house, found you sleeping and then left conspicuously, driving away in your truck to be sure that you took the blame for his misdeeds.”

Billy shrugged. “It's not great, but it covers the facts.”

“It's ludicrous! How did they get into your house? How did they start your car?”

“My house is never locked. I don't even have a key for it anymore. And I leave the truck keys in the ignition.”

“You expect us to believe that?”

“It's true. It's how people live here. Ask anyone. Ask the Chief.”

They swiveled around toward me. I nodded. It was true.

“Are we done here?” asked Gould.

“Not quite,” said Tornovitch. He stood up and walked around the table, looming over Billy. “Tell us about your watch,” he said.

“My watch?”

“It's a nice one. Where did you get it?”

Billy looked past Franny, to me. “Who is this guy, Chief? What the hell is he talking about? What does my watch have to do with—”

“Just answer the question,” Tornovitch said.

“It was a gift.”

“May I ask from whom?”

“An old girlfriend. It was years ago, What difference does it make?”

“Tell us her name, Mr. Delavane.”

“Joanna Thayer.”

“Edna Thayer's daughter.”

“For what it's worth.”

“It's worth something, Edna seems to have tutored you in civil disobedience. And her daughter must have left a profound impression. You wear the watch constantly. So I'm told.”

“Yeah, I like knowing what time it is.”

Tornovitch smiled. “And what time was it, exactly, when you were subduing Officer Barnaby Toll with a headlock last night?”

“You're telling me he identified my watch?”

“No.
You
just told
me
.”

“Come on. This makes no sense. There's no way I could have—”

He stopped talking, the way you stop walking when you come to a cliff edge. The room was silent: six pairs of eyes, watching him. Someone in the next room was listening to a Red Sox game on the radio. You could hear the rising murmur, the excited announcer, the faint roar of the crowd, as someone hit a home run.

“Damn,” Billy said.

“What?” said Franny “What are you thinking?”

Billy took a long breath and let it out in a hiss. Then he took another one.

“I just figured it out,” he said.