Red White and Black and Blue (12 page)

"This won't take more than a few minutes," I said. "There's no problem. I just have a couple of questions."

Cutler looked apprehensive. Was I some new asshole he was going to have to deal with? "Okay. What questions?"

Jim turned and went back inside.

"This is actually unofficial." I showed him my ID. "I work out of Albany, New York and I'm looking into the circumstances of your brother Greg Stiver's death. I'm working for people who are very sympathetic to Greg and to your whole family situation. I've heard from your sister, Jennifer, how bad it was for both of you. I don't know how much you know about Greg's suicide."

He stared at me. "You're not from Probation?"

"Sorry about that. I thought your boss might be more inclined to let me talk to you for ten minutes."

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"Yeah, and what if he didn't know about my status? Fuck."

"Well, he would. Those are the rules, I do believe. Anyway, I'll be out of here in no time."

"You sure as fuck will."

"I just wanted to find out what you knew about the suicide, and if you had been in touch with Greg around that time, and what he might have told you about what was going on in his head. And why you think he killed himself."

Hugh kept staring. "This is incredible. How did you even find me?"

"Court records. The assault conviction. I guessed that you might have changed your name from Stiver. Anson Stiver was a piss-poor excuse of a stepfather, I've heard from several people."

"I just can't believe this. I've had no contact with that family for fourteen years!"

"How did you know about Greg's death?"

"A buddy in Schenectady I stay in touch with e-mailed me.

He saw it in the paper."

"I'm surprised that after you left Schenectady you didn't keep up contact with Greg. You were both victims of your stepfather's abuse. Or did you two also have some kind of falling out?"

His shoulders slumped a little. "Greg and I never talked to each other about anything. He went his way, and I went mine. He had school and all that stuff. I liked engines. There was nothing to fall out from. On my eighteenth birthday, I got out. And I never looked back."

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"Your sister Jennifer is a teacher. She seems okay in her life."

"I know. My bud back home told me. Jenny never gave a fuck about me. She was like Mom. And I don't give a fuck about either one of them."

"You knew Greg was gay?"

"Yeah. He used to yell it around the house when he was in high school. It was a way to get back at Anson. But I couldn't care less whose pants he got into. That's the way Greg was, and so what?"

"Were you surprised when you heard he killed himself?"

Hugh leaned against the car and looked at the ground.

"Yeah."

"He'd never seemed suicidal to you?"

"No. Greg was strong. I was really surprised when I heard that."

"In what ways was he strong?"

He thought about this. "I dunno. Just...he had a lot of ideas about the way things worked. He was like that kid on
Family Ties
. He was conservative and had all these Republican opinions. I really got tired of hearing it. That didn't seem very gay, but what do I know? Greg wanted to change the world, and he thought he could do it. That somebody who knows all that boring crap would just go ahead and kill themselves just didn't make sense to me."

"What were his gay relationships like? Were you aware of who he dated?"

"Not really. In high school he hung out with some other nerdy gays. A kid named Bootsy was kind of girly. I think 113

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they fooled around with each other, but Greg didn't have any big crushes or great loves that I ever saw. The only crush Greg had that I knew about was Ronald Reagan. Greg had a picture of Reagan on the wall in his room."

"What were your stepfather's politics? Or did he have any?"

"Dipped if I know. Anson hated all politicians. And everybody else, too."

"Was he violent with other people that you knew of? Or just you and Greg?"

A bitter look. "Why would Anson pound anybody else besides me and Greg? If it was a kid, he'd go to jail. If it was a grown-up, the dude might smack him back. No, he had it made, Anson did. I don't know who he must be knocking around now. I hate to think."

"Can I ask you about your assault conviction? What were the circumstances?"

He almost laughed. "You could figure it out."

"Maybe. What happened?"

"An asshole in a bar in Somerville. I was drunk. So was he.

Big sack of shit, he starts ragging this kid, some Harvard dweeb, and he grabs the kid's glasses off and smashes them with his foot. The stupid kid is drunk too, and he pushes this guy, and the asshole slams the kid in the face and breaks his nose. That's when I lost it. I jumped the guy and pounded his head on the bar, and he ends up with a concussion. The cops come in and charge both of us with assault, and then we both get probation. Now I'm a criminal. Unlike Anson Stiver. Not fair, my man, not fair."

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"Had you ever been violent before?"

He looked at me stonily. "Not really. Unless you count the day I left Schenectady."

"Anson?"

"I knocked out three of his front teeth. He never called the cops. The fucker knew better."

* * * *

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My room at the Crowne Plaza had been ransacked. Since I had hardly any belongings with me in the room—a small bag, a change of clothes, toiletries—this tossing stuff around was plainly for show. They wanted me to understand that they always knew where I was and how pathetically vulnerable I was.

My laptop was on the desk where I'd left it. So was the police report on the Stiver suicide that had been faxed to me.

They—they being the Serbians?—hadn't taken the police report with them. Why? Because they already had a copy?

I powered up the laptop. It seemed fine. My password—

whyworry
—seemed to be the only thing the Serbians didn't know about me. My files were intact and the Internet connection blazed to life when I commanded it to do so. Still, I figured I'd have the McCloskey campaign's security techies check the computer out. Along with my car and...what? Our coffeemaker? Timmy's electric toothbrush?

How did they know where I was staying? I thought that I had not been followed from Crow Street to the hotel, but perhaps these people were such professionals and there were so many of them that I was simply helpless against their vast competence.

Down at the front desk, I asked the clerk if anybody had been looking for me over the past seven hours. The well-manicured young man perused his counter area, looked back up at my bandaged ear and said no. There was no point in 116

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telling him that my room had been broken into. I was the only person with a coded key card that could open the door to room 612. Just the maid and I, and anybody else who could hack into the hotel's computer system and retrieve my room number and card code.

"Will you be staying with us another night, sir?" the clerk asked.

"Yes, I will," I lied, and thought about where I might actually spend the night where the Serbians would not be able to find me.

Back in the room, I ordered a Cobb salad from room service and called Timmy. He wasn't answering, so I left a message saying I was back in Albany from Massachusetts and would be in touch.

My Blackberry got excited, and it was a message from Bud Giannopolous. He said there was a Blessing at SUNY, a Millicent Blessing in the public information office. I called there and was told that Ms. Blessing would be leaving the office in a short while and perhaps I could have an appointment with her next week. I explained that I was with BBC America and we were on a tight schedule, and it would be so great if my crew and I could drop by that afternoon. I was put on hold briefly, then informed that an afternoon interview would be feasible.

I got Tom Dunphy on the phone.

"I'm waving at you. Can you see me?"

"No. The windows over there are tinted. You're still at the Crowne Plaza?"

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"One more night. Two at the most." I told him about the break-in at my hotel room. "These people are amazing, Tom.

They see me when I'm sleeping. They know when I'm awake.

They know when I've been bad or good. So, what's going on, for fuck's sake?"

I could hear another phone going off nearby, but Dunphy stayed with me. "This does sound very professional on Louderbush's part. Too professional. It's almost like it's the feds or something. I'm trying to puzzle this out. It is too, too peculiar."

"The feds don't try to rip people's ears off or slash their tires. If they want to intimidate somebody, they are generally subtler in the way they go about it. Anyway, why would federal agents care if Kenyon Louderbush is a total asshole, or why would they even know about any of this? No, this is somebody else with an interest in the primary campaign, probably Louderbush's people themselves. Who's your counterpart over at their campaign?"

"Leonard Sample. Len's young and crass and an anti-Obama true believer. I'd be surprised, though, if Len resorted to violence. He's a religious guy and pious as shit. His violent tendencies are all in his policy ideas."

"Oh? Maybe I'll keep an open mind about that."

"Of course, you should."

I told Dunphy I was going out to pick up my car with its four new tires—these would show up on my expense statement—and I'd like Clean-Tech to check out the vehicle for tracking or listening devices and also my laptop for any weirdness.

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"Come by the office later this afternoon, and I'll get some of their geniuses over here. Five o'clock?"

"Make it the Crowne Plaza garage. I'm being watched, and I want it known that I am not alone in this and we have a veritable righteous army at our disposal. They can scare me off, but twenty more just like me will pick up the baton."

Dunphy took this seriously. "The campaign can't afford twenty more like you, Don, but I take your point."

I ate half my Cobb salad, then had to get up and get going. I drove out to Schenectady on Route 5, assuming I was being followed but not caring overly much. I returned the rental car and picked up my Toyota with its shiny new tires.

The tab came to $712 for the tires, towing, and so on, an unanticipated expenditure for donors to the Shy McCloskey gubernatorial campaign. It was up to me—and maybe only me?—to see that they got their money's worth.

Heading back to Albany on the interstate, I took the Washington Avenue SUNY exit and made my way to the administration building that housed the public information office. No one seemed to be following me. I checked the skies overhead for miniature drone aircraft with cameras but didn't spot any.

I identified myself to the department receptionist and said,

"I'd like to talk to Ms. Blessing, if I may. It has to do with the death of a student five years ago."

She nodded sympathetically. "I'll check with Millie. People are coming from BBC America to interview her, but they haven't shown up yet."

"I'll try to be quick."

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I was soon ushered into an office like Paul Podolski's—

spare design, functional gizmos, bookish clutter—except three times the size of his and with a couch. A window looked out on the spot half the length of a rugby field away where Greg Stiver had fallen to his death.

Millicent Blessing, stylish and fiftyish, with a ready smile and a firm round bottom, offered her hand and said, "I'll be happy to talk to you, Mr. Strachey, but it's really the lawyers who the McTavishes should be in touch with. At this point, we're all at the mercy of Chilton, Quarrels and whatever they might work out with the McTavishes' law firm. Or is that who you're representing?"

"Who are the McTavishes? What's their involvement? I'm confused."

"Oh. Gail said death of a student. Is this about something else?"

I took a seat, as did Blessing, now looking a bit tentative about my presence.

"I'm making some inquiries for a client about graduate student Gregory Stiver's suicide five years ago. I understand you were here at the time."

The smile melted away and Blessing may actually have blanched. "Oh yes, I remember that. It was horrible. I was thinking of another death on campus. One more recent—a binge drinking tragedy. But, yes, Gregory Stiver. That one was heartbreaking, just heartbreaking."

"Greg was about to receive his master's degree. All that achievement, and then he jumped to his death. From that building just over there, I understand. The Quad Four tower."

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She blinked back tears. "That's right. The awful thing is....

It's hard to talk about this, but the terrible thing is, I was here in the office at the time sitting right at my desk where I am now. And if I had looked out the window a few seconds later than I did, I might actually have seen Gregory fall. I think—I'm saying I
think
—I noticed him on the roof before he jumped off of it. But I didn't make anything of it. I suppose I just assumed it was university maintenance people up there.

Then a couple of minutes later there were security staff and the police and the ambulance, and that's when I went down there. I saw that boy's broken body. It was a sight I'll never forget. It was devastating, just devastating."

"You said you might have seen what might have been maintenance people on the roof. People, plural. Not just Greg?"