jg.thepelicanbrief-第11部分

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　was　somebody　much　more　sinister。　
　　
　　He　was　sitting　in　a　bar　on　Canal　Street；　drunk　by　now；　waiting　on　her　though　she　had　not　promised　to　join　him。　She　had　checked　on　him　at　lunch；　and　found　him　on　the　balcony　upstairs；　drunk　and　reading　his　book　of　Rosenberg　opinions。　He　had　decided　to　cancel　con　law　for　a　week；　said　he　might　not　be　able　to　teach　it　anymore　now　that　his　hero　was　dead。　She　told　him　to　sober　up；　and　she　left。　
　　
　　A　few　minutes　after　ten；　she　walked　to　the　puter　room　on　the　fourth　level　of　the　library　and　sat　before　a　monitor。　The　room　was　empty。　She　pecked　away　at　the　keyboard；　found　what　she　wanted；　and　soon　the　printer　was　spewing　forth　page　after　page　of　appeals　pending　in　the　eleven　federal　appellate　courts　around　the　country。　An　hour　later；　the　printer　stopped；　and　she　now　possessed　a　six…inch…thick　summary　of　the　eleven　dockets。　She　hauled　it　back　to　her　study　carrel　and　placed　it　in　the　center　of　the　cluttered　desk。　It　was　after　eleven；　and　the　fifth　level　was　deserted。　A　narrow　window　gave　an　uninspiring　view　of　a　parking　lot　and　trees　below。　
　　
　　She　kicked　off　her　shoes　again　and　inspected　the　red　paint　on　the　toes。　She　sipped　a　warm　Fresca　and　stared　blankly　at　the　parking　lot。　The　first　assumption　was　easy…the　killings　were　done　by　the　same　group　for　the　same　reasons。　If　not；　then　the　search　was　hopeless。　The　second　assumption　was　difficult…the　motive　was　not　hatred　or　revenge；　but　rather　manipulation。　There　was　a　case　or　an　issue　out　there　on　its　way　to　the　Supreme　Court；　and　someone　wanted　different　justices。　The　third　assumption　was　a　bit　easier…the　case　or　issue　involved　a　great　deal　of　money。　
　　
　　The　answer　would　not　be　found　in　the　printout　sitting　before　her。　She　flipped　through　it　until　midnight；　and　left　when　the　library　closed。　
　　
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　　AT　NOON　THURSDAY　a　secretary　carried　a　large　sack　decorated　with　grease　spots　and　filled　with　deli　sandwiches　and　onion　rings　into　a　humid　conference　room　on　the　fifth　floor　of　the　Hoover　Building。　In　the　center　of　the　square　room；　a　mahogany　table　with　twenty　chairs　along　each　side　was　surrounded　with　the　top　FBI　people　from　across　the　country。　All　ties　were　loosened　and　sleeves　rolled　up。　A　thin　cloud　of　blue　smoke　hung　around　the　cheap　government　chandelier　five　feet　above　the　table。　
　　
　　Director　Voyles　was　talking。　Tired　and　angry；　he　puffed　on　his　fourth　cigar　of　the　morning　and　walked　slowly　in　front　of　the　screen　at　his　end　of　the　table。　Half　the　men　were　listening。　The　other　half　had　pulled　reports　from　the　pile　in　the　center　of　the　table　and　read　about　the　autopsies；　the　lab　report　on　the　nylon　rope；　Nelson　Muncie；　and　a　few　other　quickly　researched　subjects。　The　reports　were　quite　thin。　
　　
　　Listening　carefully　and　reading　intently　was　Special　Agent　Eric　East；　only　a　ten…year　man　but　a　brilliant　investigator。　Six　hours　earlier　Voyles　had　picked　him　to　lead　the　investigation。　The　rest　of　the　team　had　been　selected　throughout　the　morning；　and　this　was　the　organizational　meeting。　
　　
　　East　was　listening　and　hearing　what　he　already　knew。　The　investigation　could　take　weeks；　probably　months。　Other　than　the　slugs；　nine　of　them；　the　rope；　and　the　steel　rod　used　in　the　tourniquet；　there　was　no　evidence。　The　neighbors　in　Georgetown　had　seen　nothing；　no　exceptionally　suspicious　characters　at　the　Montrose。　No　prints。　No　fibers。　Nothing。　It　takes　remarkable　talent　to　kill　so　cleanly；　and　it　takes　a　lot　of　money　to　hire　such　talent。　Voyles　was　pessimistic　about　finding　the　gunmen。　They　must　concentrate　on　whoever　hired　them。　
　　
　　Voyles　was　talking　and　puffing。　〃There's　a　memo　on　the　table　regarding　one　Nelson　Muncie；　a　millionaire　from　Jacksonville；　Florida；　who's　allegedly　made　threats　against　Rosenberg。　The　Florida　authorities　are　convinced　Muncie　paid　a　bunch　of　money　to　have　the　rapist　and　his　lawyer　killed。　The　memo　covers　it。　Two　of　our　men　talked　with　Muncie's　lawyer　this　morning；　and　were　met　with　great　hostility。　Muncie　is　out　of　the　country；　according　to　his　lawyer；　and　of　course　he　has　no　idea　when　he　will　return。　I've　assigned　twenty　men　to　investigate　him。〃　
　　
　　Voyles　relit　his　cigar　and　looked　at　a　sheet　of　paper　on　the　table。　〃Number　four　is　a　group　called　White　Resistance；　a　small　group　of　middle…aged　mandos　we've　been　watching　for　about　three　years。　You've　got　a　memo。　Pretty　weak　suspect；　really。　They'd　rather　throw　firebombs　and　burn　crosses。　Not　a　lot　of　finesse。　And；　most　importantly；　not　much　money。　I　doubt　seriously　if　they　could　hire　guns　as　slick　as　these。　But　I've　assigned　twenty　men　anyway。〃　
　　
　　East　unwrapped　a　heavy　sandwich；　sniffed　it；　but　decided　to　leave　it　alone。　The　onion　rings　were　cold。　His　appetite　had　vanished。　He　listened　and　made　notes。　Number　six　on　the　list　was　a　bit　unusual。　A　psycho　named　Clinton　Lane　had　declared　war　on　homosexuals。　His　only　son　had　moved　from　their　family　farm　in　Iowa　to　San　Francisco　to　enjoy　the　gay　life；　but　had　quickly　died　of　AIDS。　Lane　cracked　up；　and　burned　the　Gay　Coalition　office　in　Des　Moines。　Caught　and　sentenced　to　four　years；　he　escaped　in　1989　and　had　not　been　found。　According　to　the　memo；　he　had　set　up　an　extensive　coke…smuggling　operation　and　made　millions。　And　he　used　the　money　in　his　own　little　private　war　against　gays　and　lesbians。　The　FBI　had　been　trying　to　catch　him　for　five　years；　but　it　was　believed　he　operated　out　of　Mexico。　For　years　he　had　written　hate　mail　to　the　Congress；　the　Supreme　Court；　the　President。　Voyles　was　not　impressed　with　Lane　as　a　suspect。　He　was　a　nut　who　was　way　out　in　left　field；　but　no　stone　would　go　unturned。　He　assigned　only　six　agents。　
　　
　　The　list　had　ten　names。　Between　six　and　twenty　of　the　best　special　agents　were　assigned　to　each　suspect。　A　leader　was　chosen　for　each　unit。　They　were　to　report　twice　daily　to　East；　who　would　meet　each　morning　and　each　afternoon　with　the　Director。　A　hundred　or　so　more　agents　would　scour　the　streets　and　countryside　for　clues。　
　　
　　Voyles　talked　of　secrecy。　The　press　would　follow　like　bloodhounds；　so　the　investigation　must　be　extremely　confidential。　Only　he；　the　Director；　would　speak　to　the　press；　and　he　would　have　precious　little　to　say。　
　　
　　He　sat　down；　and　K。　O。　Lewis　delivered　a　rambling　monologue　about　the　funerals；　and　security；　and　a　request　from　Chief　Runyan　to　assist　in　the　investigation。　
　　
　　Eric　East　sipped　cold　coffee；　and　stared　at　the　list。　
　　
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　　IN　THIRTY…FOUR　YEARS；　Abraham　Rosenberg　wrote　no　fewer　than　twelve　hundred　opinions。　His　production　was　a　constant　source　of　amazement　to　constitutional　scholars。　He　occasionally　ignored　the　dull　antitrust　cases　and　tax　appeals；　but　if　the　issue　showed　the　barest　hint　of　real　controversy；　he　waded　in　with　both　fists。　He　wrote　majority　opinions；　concurrences　to　majorities；　concurrences　to　dissents；　and　many；　many　dissents。　Often　he　dissented　alone。　Every　hot　issue　in　thirty…four　years　had　received　an　opinion　of　some　sort　from　Rosenberg。　The　scholars　and　critics　loved　him。　They　published　books　and　essays　and　critiques　about　him　and　his　work。　Darby　found　five　separate　hardback　pilations　of　his　opinions；　with　editorial　notes　and　annotations。　One　book　contained　nothing　but　his　great　dissents。　
　　
　　She　skipped　class　Thursday　and　secluded　herself　in　the　study　carrel　on　the　fifth　level　of　the　library。　The　puter　printouts　were　scattered　neatly　on　the　floor。　The　Rosenberg　books　were　open　and　marked　and　stacked　on　top　of　each　other。　
　　
　　There　was　a　reason　for　the　killings。　Revenge　and　hatred　would　be　acceptable　for　Rosenberg　alone。　But　add　Jensen　to　the　equation；　and　revenge　and　hatred　made　less　sense。　Sure　he　was　hateable；　but　he　had　not　aroused　passions　like　Yount　or　even　Manning。　
　　
　　She　found　no　books　of　critical　thought　on　the　writings　of　Justice　Glenn　Jensen。　In　six　years；　he　had　authored　only　twenty…eight　majority　opinions；　the　lowest　production　on　the　Court。　He　had　written　a　few　dissents；　and　joined　a　few　concurrences；　but　he　was　a　painfully　slow　worker。　At　times　his　writing　was　clear　and　lucid；　at　times　disjointed　and　pathetic。　
　　
　　She　studied　Jensen's　opinions。　His　ideology　swung　radically　from　year　to　year。　He　was　generally　consistent　in　his　protection　of　the　rights　of　criminal　defendants；　but　there　were　enough　exceptions　to　astound　any　scholar。　In　seven　attempts；　he　had　voted　with　the　Indians　five　times。　He　had　written　three　majority　opinions　strongly　protective　of　the　environment。　He　was　near　perfect　in　support　of　tax　protestors。　
　　
　　But　there　were　no　clues。　Jensen　was　too　erratic　to　take　seriously。　pared　to　the　other　eight；　he　was　harmless。　
　　
　　She　finished　another　warm　Fresca；　and　put　away　for　the　moment　her　notes　on　Jensen。　Her　watch　was　hidden　in　a　drawer。　She　had　no　idea　what　time　it　was。　Callahan　had　sobered　up　and　wanted　a　late　dinner　at　Mr。　B's　in　the　Quarter。　She　needed　to　call　him。　
　　
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　　DICK　MABRY；　the　current　speechwriter　and　word　wizard；　sat　in　a　chair　beside　the　President's　desk　and　watched　as　Fletcher　Coal　and　the　President　read　the　third　draft　of　a　proposed　eulogy　for　Justice　Jensen。　Coal　had　rejected　the　first　two；　and　Mabry　was　still　uncertain　about　what　they　wanted。　Coal　would　suggest　one　thing。　The　President　wanted　something　else。　Earlier　in　the　day；　Coal　had　called　and　said　to　forget　the　eulogy　because　the　President　would　not　attend　the　funeral。　Then　the　President　had　called；　and　asked　him　to　prepare　a　few　words　because　Jensen　was　a　friend　and　even　though　he　was　a　queer　he　was　still　a　friend。　
　　
　　Mabry　knew　Jensen　was　not　a　friend；　but　he　was　a　freshly　assassinated　justice　who　would　enjoy　a　highly　visible　funeral。　
　　
　　Then　Coal　had　called　and　said　they　weren't　sure　if　the　President　was　going　but　work　up　something　just　in　case。　Mabry's　office　was　in　the　Old　Executive　Office　Building　next　door　to　the　White　House；　and　during　the　day　small　bets　had　been　placed　on　whether　the　President　would　attend　the　funeral　of　a　known　homosexual。　The　office　odds　were　three　to　one　that　he　would　not。
　　
　　〃Much　better；　Dick；〃　Coal　said；　folding　the　paper。
　　
　　〃I　like　it　too；〃　the　President　said。　Mabry　had　noticed　that　the　Pr