Eleventh Hour
Page 37
“Why don’t we go into a conference room,” Dane said. “You do have one, I assume? With chairs?”
“Sure. I’ve got seven minutes,” Wolfinger said, drank down more soda, and burped.
“With all your reputed brains,” Flynn said, “we should get this resolved in five.”
“I expect so,” Wolfinger said, and waved them into a long, narrow, utterly plush conference room just down the hall. Manning the coffeepot and three plates piled high with goodies was the second of the three secretaries, Mrs. Grossman.
All of them accepted cups of coffee.
Once they were all seated, Linus Wolfinger leaned forward in his chair and said, “Have you seen the third episode, the one that was scheduled to air this Tuesday night?”
“Not yet,” Delion said.
Linus Wolfinger said, “It’s about two particularly brutal murders that take place in western New York. There’s an even more X-Files type of situation than there was in the first two. It’s got this talking head that keeps appearing just before the victims get chopped up. It’s pretty creepy. DeLoach loves shit like that. He’s very good at it.”
Dane and Delion looked at each other. When they’d first heard the writer’s name, they’d been flabbergasted. “Why would the jerk advertise like this?” Delion had wondered aloud.
Dane said, “DeLoach? The main writer’s name is DeLoach?”
Wolfinger nodded. “Yes, he’s smart. Ideas keep marching out of his brain like little soldiers. He really knows how to manipulate the viewer well. I’m sure, however, that all of you already knew the head writer’s name.”
“Could be,” Delion said.
“Sounds like you like the guy,” Flynn said.
Wolfinger shrugged. “What’s not to like? He’s creative, has a brain, and best of all, he has a modicum of a work ethic. Why are you so excited about DeLoach’s name?”
Delion, seeing no reason not to, said, “DeBruler is the alias our guy used in San Francisco, at the rectory.”
“That’s very close,” Wolfinger said, tapping his pen on the tabletop. “But you know, despite the names being close, there’s no way DeLoach is your guy.”
“Oh?” Flynn said, raising an eyebrow.
“The thing is that DeLoach is a weenie. I once saw him throw away an ice cream cone when a fly buzzed near it. He—well, I guess you could say that he lives in his head, he’s really out of place here, in the real world. He’s got a real rich fantasy life, and that’s good for Premier. As I said, he’s also got a work ethic, so all of it works to our advantage. But is he a man who’d commit brutal murders? No, definitely not DeLoach.”
Dane said, “It’s possible that DeLoach is a dangerous weenie, that this rich fantasy life of his has somehow imploded and pushed him out of his head and into the real world. Tell us more about DeLoach. Is he the one who came up with the concept for The Consultant?”
“Yes,” Wolfinger said. “Yes, he did. His full name is Weldon DeLoach. He’s been responsible for two very successful shows in the last ten years. Well respected is Weldon, even though he’s pretty old now.”
“Define ‘pretty old,’ ” Flynn said.
“He’s probably early thirties, maybe even older than that.”
“Glory be,” Delion said. “He’s nearly ready for assisted living.”
Wolfinger said, “Despite what I’ve told you, you still think he’s the primary suspect?”
“It sure looks possible,” Delion said. “We’ll have to look at everyone. We’ll need lists from Personnel of all the writers who’ve been involved with the show, all the technicians, everyone who’s even sniffed around the sets.”
Dane said, looking thoughtfully at Linus Wolfinger, “DeBruler and DeLoach. The killer would have known his name, whoever he was. It doesn’t mean much.”
Delion shook his head, back and forth. “That would be just too easy. Makes the guy stupid, and Mr. Wolfinger here says he’s got a brain. Ain’t no road ever that straight. But we’ll talk to him, the other writers as well and all those folks involved with making the show. Get us those lists, Mr. Wolfinger. I got detectives ready to go. The FBI is sending agents here to interview, do background checks, go over alibis, that sort of thing.”
Linus Wolfinger nodded. He was tapping a pen on the tabletop. Dane knew it was a different one from the one he had been chewing on in his office because it didn’t have teeth marks in it. “You didn’t ask me who I thought was behind this.”
“Sure. I’ve got seven minutes,” Wolfinger said, drank down more soda, and burped.
“With all your reputed brains,” Flynn said, “we should get this resolved in five.”
“I expect so,” Wolfinger said, and waved them into a long, narrow, utterly plush conference room just down the hall. Manning the coffeepot and three plates piled high with goodies was the second of the three secretaries, Mrs. Grossman.
All of them accepted cups of coffee.
Once they were all seated, Linus Wolfinger leaned forward in his chair and said, “Have you seen the third episode, the one that was scheduled to air this Tuesday night?”
“Not yet,” Delion said.
Linus Wolfinger said, “It’s about two particularly brutal murders that take place in western New York. There’s an even more X-Files type of situation than there was in the first two. It’s got this talking head that keeps appearing just before the victims get chopped up. It’s pretty creepy. DeLoach loves shit like that. He’s very good at it.”
Dane and Delion looked at each other. When they’d first heard the writer’s name, they’d been flabbergasted. “Why would the jerk advertise like this?” Delion had wondered aloud.
Dane said, “DeLoach? The main writer’s name is DeLoach?”
Wolfinger nodded. “Yes, he’s smart. Ideas keep marching out of his brain like little soldiers. He really knows how to manipulate the viewer well. I’m sure, however, that all of you already knew the head writer’s name.”
“Could be,” Delion said.
“Sounds like you like the guy,” Flynn said.
Wolfinger shrugged. “What’s not to like? He’s creative, has a brain, and best of all, he has a modicum of a work ethic. Why are you so excited about DeLoach’s name?”
Delion, seeing no reason not to, said, “DeBruler is the alias our guy used in San Francisco, at the rectory.”
“That’s very close,” Wolfinger said, tapping his pen on the tabletop. “But you know, despite the names being close, there’s no way DeLoach is your guy.”
“Oh?” Flynn said, raising an eyebrow.
“The thing is that DeLoach is a weenie. I once saw him throw away an ice cream cone when a fly buzzed near it. He—well, I guess you could say that he lives in his head, he’s really out of place here, in the real world. He’s got a real rich fantasy life, and that’s good for Premier. As I said, he’s also got a work ethic, so all of it works to our advantage. But is he a man who’d commit brutal murders? No, definitely not DeLoach.”
Dane said, “It’s possible that DeLoach is a dangerous weenie, that this rich fantasy life of his has somehow imploded and pushed him out of his head and into the real world. Tell us more about DeLoach. Is he the one who came up with the concept for The Consultant?”
“Yes,” Wolfinger said. “Yes, he did. His full name is Weldon DeLoach. He’s been responsible for two very successful shows in the last ten years. Well respected is Weldon, even though he’s pretty old now.”
“Define ‘pretty old,’ ” Flynn said.
“He’s probably early thirties, maybe even older than that.”
“Glory be,” Delion said. “He’s nearly ready for assisted living.”
Wolfinger said, “Despite what I’ve told you, you still think he’s the primary suspect?”
“It sure looks possible,” Delion said. “We’ll have to look at everyone. We’ll need lists from Personnel of all the writers who’ve been involved with the show, all the technicians, everyone who’s even sniffed around the sets.”
Dane said, looking thoughtfully at Linus Wolfinger, “DeBruler and DeLoach. The killer would have known his name, whoever he was. It doesn’t mean much.”
Delion shook his head, back and forth. “That would be just too easy. Makes the guy stupid, and Mr. Wolfinger here says he’s got a brain. Ain’t no road ever that straight. But we’ll talk to him, the other writers as well and all those folks involved with making the show. Get us those lists, Mr. Wolfinger. I got detectives ready to go. The FBI is sending agents here to interview, do background checks, go over alibis, that sort of thing.”
Linus Wolfinger nodded. He was tapping a pen on the tabletop. Dane knew it was a different one from the one he had been chewing on in his office because it didn’t have teeth marks in it. “You didn’t ask me who I thought was behind this.”
