An FBI spokesman said Agent Starling will be relieved of field duties with pay pending the outcome of the FBI’s internal investigation. A hearing is expected later this week before the Office of Professional Responsibility, the FBI’s own dread Inquisition.
Relatives of the late Evelda Drumgo said they will seek civil damages from the U.S. government and from Starling personally in wrongful-death suits.
Drumgo’s three-month-old son, seen in his mother’s arms in the dramatic pictures of the shoot-out, was not injured.
Attorney Telford Higgins, who has defended the Drumgo family in numerous criminal proceedings, alleged that Special Agent Starling’s weapon, a modified Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol, was not approved for use in law enforcement in the city of Washington. “It is a deadly and dangerous instrument not suitable for use in law enforcement,” Higgins said. “Its very use constitutes reckless endangerment of human life,” the noted defense attorney said.
The Tattler had bought Clarice Starling’s very home phone number from one of her informants and rang it until Starling left it off the hook, and used her FBI cell phone to talk to the office.
Starling did not have a great deal of pain in her ear and the swollen side of her face as long as she did not touch the bandage. At least she didn’t throb. Two Tylenol held her. She didn’t need the Percocet the doctor had prescribed. She dozed against the headboard of the bed, the Washington Post sliding off the spread onto the floor, gunpowder residue in her hands, dried tears stiff on her cheeks.
CHAPTER
4
You fall in love with the Bureau, but the Bureau doesn’t fall in love with you.
—MAXIM IN FBI SEPARATION COUNSELING
THE FBI gymnasium in the J. Edgar Hoover Building was almost empty at this early hour. Two middle-aged men ran slow laps on the indoor track. The clank of a weight machine in a far corner and the shouts and impacts of a racquetball game echoed in the big room.
The voices of the runners did not carry. Jack Crawford was running with FBI Director Tunberry at the director’s request. They had gone two miles and were beginning to puff.
“Blaylock at ATF has to twist in the wind for Waco. It won’t happen right now, but he’s done and he knows it,” the director said. “He might as well give the Reverend Moon notice he’s vacating the premises.” The fact that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms rents office space in Washington from the Reverend Sun Myung Moon is a source of amusement to the FBI.
“And Farriday is out for Ruby Ridge,” the director continued.
“I can’t see that,” Crawford said. He had served in New York with Farriday in the 1970s when the mob was picketing the FBI field office at Third Avenue and 69th Street. “Farriday’s a good man. He didn’t set the rules of engagement.”
“I told him yesterday morning.”
“He going quietly?” Crawford asked.
“Let’s just say he’s keeping his benefits. Dangerous times, Jack.”
Both men were running with their heads back. Their pace quickened a little. Out of the corner of his eye, Crawford saw the director sizing up his condition.
“You’re what, Jack, fifty-six?”
“That’s right.”
“One more year to mandatory retirement. Lot of guys get out at forty-eight, fifty, while they can still get a job. You never wanted that. You wanted to keep busy after Bella died.”
When Crawford didn’t answer for half a lap, the director saw he had misspoken.
“I don’t mean to be light about it, Jack. Doreen was saying the other day, how much—”
“There’s still some stuff to do at Quantico. We want to streamline VICAP on the Web so any cop can use it, you saw it in the budget.”
“Did you ever want to be director, Jack?”
“I never thought it was my kind of job.”
“It’s not, Jack. You’re not a political guy. You could never have been director. You could never have been an Eisenhower, Jack, or an Omar Bradley.” He motioned for Crawford to stop, and they stood wheezing beside the track. “You could have been a Patton, though, Jack. You can lead ’em through hell and make ’em love you. It’s a gift that I don’t have. I have to drive them.” Tunberry took a quick look around him, picked up his towel off a bench and draped it around his shoulders like the vestment of a hanging judge. His eyes were bright.
Some people have to tap their anger to be tough, Crawford reflected as he watched Tunberry’s mouth move.
“In the matter of the late Mrs. Drumgo with her MAC 10 and her meth lab, shot to death while holding her baby: Judiciary Oversight wants a meat sacrifice. Fresh, bleating meat. And so do the media. DEA has to throw them some meat. ATF has to throw them some meat. And we have to throw them some. But in our case, they just might be satisfied with poultry. Krendler thinks we can give them Clarice Starling and they’ll leave us alone. I agree with him. ATF and DEA take the rap for planning the raid. Starling pulled the trigger.”