The Sleeping Doll

courthouse, attracting the attention of everybody nearby.
    “Look, I don’t know—”
    “Shhhhh,” the wiry agent offered again.
    The Latino frisked him carefully and nodded. Then he lifted Nagle’s press pass off his chest and showed it to the shorter officer.
    “Hm,” he said. “This is a little out of date, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Technically, but—”
    “Sir, it’s four years out of date,” the Latino officer pointed out.
    “That’s a big bowl of technical,” his partner said.
    “I must’ve picked up the wrong one. I’ve been a reporter for—”
    “So, if we called this paper, they’d say you’re a credentialed employee?”
    If they called the paper they’d get a nonworking number.
    “Look, I can explain.”
    The short officer frowned. “You know, I sure would like an explanation. See, I was just talking to this groundskeeper, who told me that a man fitting your description was here about eight thirty this morning. There were no other reporters here then. And why would that be? Because there was no escape then. . . . Getting here before the story breaks. That’s quite a—whatta they call that, Rey?”
    “Scoop?”
    “Yeah, that’s quite a scoop. So, ’fore you do any explaining, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
    •    •    •
    In the conference room on the second floor of the courthouse, TJ handed Dance what he’d found on Morton Nagle.
    No weapons, no incendiary fuse, no maps of the courthouse or escape routes.
    Just money, wallet, camera, tape recorder and thick notebook. Along with three true-crime books, his name on the cover and his picture on the back (appearing much younger, and hairier).
    “He’s a paperback writer,” TJ sang, not doing justice to the Beatles.
    Nagle was described in the author bio as “a former war correspondent and police reporter, who now writes books about crime. A resident of Scottsdale, Ariz., he is the author of thirteen works of nonfiction. He claims his other professions are gadabout, nomad and raconteur.”
    “This doesn’t let you off the hook,” Dance snapped. “What’re you doing here? And why were you at the courthouse before the fire?”
    “I’m not covering the escape. I got here early to get some interviews.”
    O’Neil said, “With Pell? He doesn’t give them.”
    “No, no, not Pell. With the family of Robert Herron. I heard they were coming to testify to the grand jury.”
    “What about the fake press pass?”
    “Okay, it’s been four years since I’ve been credentialed with a magazine or newspaper. I’ve been writing books full-time. But without a press pass you can’t get anywhere. Nobody ever looks at the date.”
    “ Almost never,” TJ corrected with a smile.
    Dance flipped through one of the books. It was about the Peterson murder case in California a few years ago. It seemed well written.
    TJ looked up from his laptop. “He’s clean, boss. At least no priors. DMV pic checks out too.”
    “I’m writing a book. It’s all legit. You can check.”
    He gave them the name of his editor in Manhattan. Dance called the large publishing company and spoke to the woman, whose attitude was, Oh, hell, what’s Morton got himself into now? But she confirmed that he’d signed a contract for a new book about Pell.
    Dance said to TJ, “Uncuff him.”
    O’Neil turned to the author and asked, “What’s the book about?”
    “It isn’t like any true crime you’ve read before. It’s not about the murders. That’s been done. It’s about the victims of Daniel Pell. What their lives were like before the murders and, the ones who survived, what they’re like now. See, most nonfiction crime on TV or in books focuses only on the murderer himself and the crime—the gore, the gruesome aspects. The cheap stuff. I hate that. My book’s about Theresa Croyton—the girl who survived—and the family’s relatives and friends. The title’s going to be The Sleeping Doll . That’s what they called Theresa. I’m also going to include the women who were in Pell’s quote Family, the ones he brainwashed. And all the other victims of Pell’s too. There are really hundreds of them, whenyou think about it. I see violent crime like dropping a stone into a pond. The ripples of consequence can spread almost forever.”
    There was passion in his voice; he sounded like a preacher. “There’s so much violence in the world. We’re inundated with it and we get numb. My God, the war in Iraq? Gaza?