"Did it occur to you that Greg might be alive and he would need help?"

"After a fall from that height? That would have been impossible."

"Maybe."

"I knew it would look like suicide—why else would he have gone up to the roof?—and I drove to Greg's apartment to fake a suicide note. I had a letter he had once written to me at a time when he had decided to end the relationship. He had written in big letters at the end of the note I hurt too much. I had the letter with me—I wanted to show it to Greg and remind him that the relationship was as painful and difficult 197

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and unrealistic for him as it was for me—and I ripped off that line and left it on Greg's desk. His friends found it there, and even the police were convinced that Greg's death was a suicide."

"Yes, they were. And your office snooped around SUNY and the Albany cops trying to find out if anybody had any suspicions regarding the verdict."

"You know that already."

"I do."

"And were there suspicions?"

"Some. But an Albany cop who didn't want any political high mucky-mucks involved in something dubious or messy saw to it that the case was closed and the suicide verdict certified."

"I was incredibly lucky."

"You bet you were."

"I drove back to my office. I mean I assume I drove there.

I actually have no memory of it. I went into my office and cleared my schedule, and I sent my staff home. And then I got down on my knees and I prayed to God for forgiveness."

Here we go. "And were you forgiven?"

"That's a question I won't have an answer to until the day I meet my maker. But I went into therapy the next week, and now I have the kind of understanding of myself that makes it possible for me to control my impulses. And they are under control, as Deidre can attest to."

"How would she know?"

"I can read my husband," Mrs. Louderbush said. "I've lived with the man for twenty-six years."

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"You didn't read him very successfully before last January."

"That's not true, not that it's any of your bleeping business. I sensed something was gnawing at him. I just assumed it had to do with his troubled childhood. Kenyon had always been moody because of that. If you'd ever met his father, you'd understand."

"And now he's a man at peace with himself?"

"More or less, yes, he is. Not of course taking into account the stress of the gubernatorial campaign and from having to put up with people of your ilk."

"Who's your therapist in Rochester?" I asked Louderbush.

"You know I can't tell you that. Or if I did tell you, my doctor would certainly not respond to any inquiries you might make."

"He or she might talk to me if I have some kind of waiver from you."

An incredulous shake of the head. "Forget it."

What was Louderbush doing? Was he being utterly honest and sincere, telling some reasonable facsimile of the truth even? And did he believe deep in his heart that I—and the McCloskey campaign—should accept his melodramatic tale on its face, and with a mixture of compassion for him and his family, as well as a belief in Christian redemption, simply drop the whole matter of questioning his fitness for office? Or was he, as I suspected, a pathological liar who had made up most or even all of the version of events he had just laid out for me so cogently, so tidily—too tidily, I was inclined to think.

I said, "Look, Mr. Louderbush, even if the McCloskey campaign agreed to overlook your past depredations, 199

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somebody else is bound to come along and get wind of this reeking stuff. I mean, I know about Greg Stiver and about Randy Spong, but how many other of these relationships were there?"

"A few."

"A few. Well, it looks to me as if you might be facing broken-nosed-college-boy eruptions throughout the general election campaign and, if you managed to beat Merle Ostwind and were somehow elected, well into a governorship you'd then be forced to resign from."

"No," he said firmly. "No one I was involved with would ever turn on me that way. They all respected me—even adored me."

His wife was looking a little queasy now, but she kept her mouth clamped shut. I thought of Frogman Ying, but I supposed Louderbush was referring to his resplendent conservative ideology and principles.

"You underestimate confidential anecdotal slippage. I first learned about you from two friends of Greg Stiver who he confided in."

Louderbush glanced at his wife and then looked at me evenly. "If any stories did begin to surface, it would help if the McCloskey campaign announced to the press that they had taken a close look at these ugly rumors, and Shy McCloskey has concluded that they are vicious slurs that have no basis in fact."

"I'm not following you. How could we possibly say that?"

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He looked at his wife again, and this time she reached over and picked up her handbag. She reached into it. Was she going to bring out a pistol? No. It was a fat envelope.

* * * *

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Twenty-three

The first name that leaped out was Nicholas Giannopolous.

Blabbedy-blah Nicholas Giannopolous this, blabbedy-blah Nicholas Giannopolous that. Nicholas Giannopolous illegal penetrations of computer systems at the State University of New York at Albany; Nicholas Giannopolous illegal hacking of confidential files at Shenango Life Insurance Company; Nicholas Giannopolous illegal privacy violations of personnel records at Burton Hendricks Elementary School, Rotterdam, New York. What an accomplished technician Bud was!

Then my name started appearing. Donald Strachey impersonating a collector of funds for a scholarship in memory of deceased SUNY student Gregory Stiver; Donald Strachey impersonating a representative of the British Broadcasting Corporation in order to gain entree at SUNY and procure private university information under false pretenses; Donald Strachey impersonating a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in order to obtain confidential personnel information at Hall Creek Community College, Hall Creek, New York.

Then fifty or sixty pages of transcripts of telephone conversations between me and Timmy, me and Bud Giannopolous, me and Jenny Stiver, me and my pal at APD, me and Millicent Blessing's secretary, me and Tom Dunphy, among others.

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I flipped through the pages and now understood that my car had not been wired, and my computer had not been penetrated. It was my cell phone. My cell had been hacked.

I said, "Where did you get this stuff, Mr. Louderbush?"

"It was shoved through the mail slot at my home in Kurtzburg last night. There were two other copies besides this one. One is safely stowed away. The other I had sent by courier half an hour ago to Tom Dunphy."

His wife watched me with contemptuous eyes.