by Ed Markham
He’d also stood for a time at the bottom of the basement stairs, looking up at the dark doorway to the second floor. He could see there was no knob on the basement side of the door. But there was some kind of numeric keypad that glowed a faint lime green.
It had taken Carson nearly five minutes to work up the courage to take the first step. He’d eased his way up the stairs on hands and knees, wanting to spread his weight to avoid releasing unseen creaks from the staircase. He’d stood at the top of the stairs, his mouth dry, and had peered into the door’s edges. He could see nothing. There seemed to be some type of rubber molding sealing the perimeter of the door and preventing any light from reaching or escaping the basement.
Carson had also stared at the keypad. Eventually, he’d raised a finger to depress one of the buttons.
He winced as he did it, expecting a loud beep. That would have sent him scrambling back down the stairs. But the lime green keypad lights had only blinked at his touch. After a few seconds of tentative prodding, Carson had begun punching the buttons at random. Several fruitless minutes later, he’d abandoned the keypad and the door.
Returning to the basement, he’d tried to think of other ways he might be able to escape, but none had come to him. He was a prisoner, and there was no way out of his cell.
When the air hockey puck floated back to him this time, Carson let it drift into his own goal. He floated his paddle along the top of the table and switched off the air flow. The basement was quieter now without the hum of the air generator.
“Hello?” Carson called out, a little timidly. He wasn’t afraid to show weakness now. He was just afraid. “Are you up there?”
He waited, listening, but heard only the sound of his own empty stomach rumbling. He hadn’t eaten all day. In fact, he hadn’t had a single scrap of food since the other boy had left him the previous night.
For a while Carson had been too afraid to call out. After screaming with frustration that morning, and then not receiving any food or company, he’d thought maybe the bearded man was withholding things from him as a form of punishment. But now his hunger was becoming unbearable, and he decided he couldn’t help himself. He had to ask.
“If you are up there, would you send Josh down again? Please? Or maybe just some food? I’m sorry I screamed earlier. I was just freaking out a little. I won’t do it again.”
He waited, listening, but heard nothing. Not a footstep or a creak. Not the outdoor autumn sounds of people raking leaves, or the calls of migrating geese. His entire world was contained in the cold, dank basement, and there was nothing down here but the sound of the movie playing on the television.
Carson sat on the couch and tried to lose himself in the film, but it was difficult to see through his tears. He cried softly, not wanting to anger the man upstairs in case he was up there, listening.
Chapter 40
PEERING THROUGH THE small, square window in the doorway leading to the interrogation room, David could see James Ganther tapping his heels restlessly.
Ganther’s back was to him, and David could see the tension in the man’s shoulders as well as his head of light-colored hair, moving from side to side as though Ganther were obsessively scanning the empty tabletop and wall in front of him. The man was visibly agitated.
David turned and looked at his father, and then at Kerrigan and Carr, who were standing a few feet away and preparing to enter an adjacent room that would allow them to watch an A/V feed of the interview. Omar also looked on along with one of the Bureau’s Philadelphia agents and two members of the holding facility’s staff.
“He’s wound up,” David said to his father.
Martin pursed his lips. “Thirty years in prison plus half a decade of methamphetamine and alcohol addiction, not to mention whatever he took at Horn’s . . . I’d be wound up too.”
Omar had told them on their way to the interrogation room that Ganther didn’t have a lawyer, and hadn’t yet requested one. That was fortunate, David thought. He’d worried Harvey Horn might have extended his care of Ganther to include gratis legal representation.
“He hasn’t said anything?” he asked Omar.
“Not a word.”
“Where are the keys to his shackles?”
Omar looked confused. “The orderlies have them,” he said, gesturing toward a small cluster of similarly attired men. “Why?”
David glanced at them and then nodded toward the interrogation room. “He seems antsy. I want him to relax, so I’m going to take his handcuffs off.”
“You can’t be fucking serious—” Kerrigan started to protest.
But Carr interrupted him. “I’m sure Agent Yerxa has done this before.” She looked at David apprehensively, as though she was hoping he’d confirm her suspicion. But he said nothing; his eyes were on the doorway to the interrogation room.
Martin stepped to his son’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “You sure that’s wise?”
David didn’t answer, but he usually believed in the persuasive power of the soft play, the gentle touch. Any idiot could scream and curse and scare the hell out of a suspect, and that could be effective if you were dealing with the right type of criminal—someone young or stupid. That technique was undoubtedly more satisfying for the agent. But the purpose of the interrogation was to draw out information. And for that, he believed you sometimes had to go places you didn’t want to go. It didn’t matter what you thought of the man or his motives; when you walked into that room, you had to be the suspect’s sympathizer. And to do that, you had to put your own judgments and gratifications aside.
As Omar, Kerrigan, and Carr made their way to the A/V room to watch the interrogation, Martin looked at his son. “I take it you’ll lead in there?”
David turned and stared at him. “Pop, you can’t be in there with me.”
Martin took a step back, his brow dipping. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You sent Ganther to prison for three decades. He’ll recognize you, and he won’t say a word.”
Martin started to protest, but his son shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no.”
David saw acceptance settle grudgingly into his father’s features.
“All right,” Martin said. “You’re right.” He paused, and looked from his son to the interrogation room. He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it. He nodded once to David and then walked toward the observation room, hands stuffed in the pockets of his windbreaker.
David waved to the men who worked for the holding facility, both of whom wore gray trousers and matching shirts. “One of you has keys to Ganther’s handcuffs?” he asked.
The larger of the two men, a middle-aged black man with close-cropped hair and muscular shoulders, raised a hand.
“Would you mind coming in there with me?” David asked.
“No,” the man said, extending the hand to David. “Michael Serwer.”
David shook his hand and introduced himself. “Follow me in, and stand behind Ganther. Wait until I’ve taken a seat and nodded to you before unlocking his handcuffs. I want Ganther to see that it’s my decision. I’ll tell you when it’s all right to leave. I’d like to be alone in there with him.”
Serwer nodded. “Your show,” he said.
David turned to the doorway and looked in again at James Ganther, who was still tapping his heels and scanning the tabletop. After a few quiet seconds, David reached for the door’s heavy steel handle.
Chapter 41
AT THE SOUND of the door opening, James Ganther stopped tapping his heels. His head jerked to one side, and David could see for the first time one of his small, bullet-hole-dark eyes.
The eye followed him as he entered the room, which smelled resinous and feral. Without speaking, he walked around Ganther to the far side of the table and took a seat. The two sat looking at each other in silence.
David thought Ganther appeared even younger in person than he had in his prison release photographs. His hair was still uniform
ly blonde, and was long enough in back to touch his shirt collar. Above a thin-lipped mouth and slightly flared nostrils, Ganther’s eyes were wide and a little frantic. His head was also tipped back and turned to the side, as though David were a ferocious animal about to strike at him.
David could see small shaving nicks and cuts on Ganther’s chin and neck. After a few seconds, he looked at the guard and nodded for him to unlock the prisoner’s handcuffs.
Ganther swiveled his head as he heard Serwer approach, and he yelped like a frightened dog when the guard started to remove the shackles.
“It’s all right,” David said softly, calmly. “He’s taking off your handcuffs.”
Ganther looked at him, his eyes still wide and frightened, and then he pinched them shut. He nodded vigorously as Serwer inserted the key into the lock.
When the shackles were off, David said to Serwer, “You can leave us alone now.”
The guard nodded and left the room.
Ganther brought his hands up to the tabletop and extended his fingers while rolling his wrists. He looked at them and let out a deep breath, obviously relishing the absence of metal.
“Thank you,” he said.
His voice was higher than David would have supposed, though it had a polished warmth that was pleasing—like the voice of an old-time radio announcer.
“You’re welcome. My name is David Yerxa, and I’m a special agent with the FBI.” He paused, waiting to see if Ganther would have anything to say about this. When it was clear he did not, David asked him, “Do you know why you’re here today?”
Ganther again nodded vigorously, and then the words started to pour out of him in the same pleasant-sounding but frantic voice. “Yes, sir. I know ibogaine’s illegal, and that it’s a violation of my parole. I know that. But you’ve got to understand, I’d tried everything else. I tried AA, I tried narcotics anonymous, I tried God, I tried meditation—everything you could think of. All of it. But none of it did me no good. I got an addictive personality, you see? And the usual things just don’t work on me. I’m a numbskull like that. And I knew it was gonna kill me—the booze and the drugs—unless I got quit of 'em. And then a pal of mine told me about this place in Jonestown where people could get clean—could get off of whatever it was that was holding them down, drugs or booze or whatever. And I knew I’d be dead if I didn’t quit all that. So I took the risk even though I knew it was a violation.”
Ganther had nodded as he spoke, and now he kept nodding even though his words had stopped. He looked at David, his eyes expectant and fearful, waiting to hear how this confession would be received.
David looked back at him, searching his face without speaking. The longer he looked, the more desperate Ganther’s expression became. The corners of his mouth pulled up into a rictus, and his eyes squinted as though something important to him was about to be extinguished.
David started to speak. But Ganther—as though sensing he wouldn’t hear the answer he’d hoped for—rushed to speak over him. “I knew it was wrong. I knew it. And I know what I done is illegal. But please, understand that I meant well. I was just trying to be good.”
“James,” David said. He leaned forward and made a settling motion with his hands, trying to calm Ganther down. “How long were you staying at Harvey Horn’s house in Jonestown?”
Ganther blinked hard a few times and looked at the tabletop. “Oh, that’s tough. That’s tough. Time moves differently there, you know? I’d say two weeks, I guess. Maybe three? I can’t believe it’d be more than three, but then I guess I would believe it if you said it was so.”
Again, he looked at David expectantly, as though he hoped he’d given the correct answer to a tricky question.
“Harvey Horn told us you’d been with him roughly six weeks. Maybe more.”
Ganther’s eyes widened and dropped to the tabletop. “Oh Jesus. Can that be? Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you. Truly I didn’t. But I was on this drug, you see? Time moves differently on it. Slows down and speeds up. But I can’t believe I was there that long. I can’t believe it.”
David waved his hand reassuringly to let Ganther know his miscalculation was forgiven. “Looks like you shaved recently,” he said. “When did you take off your beard?”
As he said this, Ganther pawed at his chin as though confirming that his beard was really gone. “Oh geez, I forgot about that. I feel like it was only a day or two ago, but after what you just told me I ain’t so sure.”
“Why’d you shave it off?”
Ganther looked puzzled as he kept rubbing his chin. A red irritation was starting to appear beneath the motion of his hand. “I just remember looking in the mirror and not liking what I saw. I remember I couldn’t think of what my face was like without it, and I wanted to know.”
He was rubbing almost manically now, and David held up a hand to ease him. “Try to relax, James. Breathe. You’re going to rub off your chin there.”
Ganther pulled away his hand abruptly and looked at it as though rubbing off his chin was a legitimate danger. Then he nodded appreciatively to David.
“Harvey Horn told me you just shaved it off yesterday, so your memory’s solid on that one,” David said. “Harvey also told us you’d spent some time away from his home—that he has some cabins and tents, and that you stayed at one or more of these?”
Ganther nodded, apparently eager to make amends. “Yes, sir. There were times when I wanted to be alone. To think over things. Harvey had some real nice cabins I could drive to down the beach, and I know I stayed in one of 'em at least once or twice. Maybe more, but I don’t think so. I never stayed in one of the tents. Ever since ’Nam I don’t like that—sleeping outdoors.”
“Did the cabin you stayed in have a name, or a number?”
“Yes, sir,” Ganther said without hesitating. “Lucky number four. That’s my lucky number anyway, that’s how I remembered so quickly. Number four. Though come to think of it, I don’t know how much luck it’s ever brung me.”
David shot a quick glance to the camera mounted in the corner of the room over Ganther’s right shoulder. He hoped Omar was already on the phone to Dorsey’s SWAT unit in Jonestown, telling them to check out cabin number four if they hadn’t already.
“You said you wanted to be alone to think things over,” David said to Ganther. “What were you thinking about?”
Ganther raised his eyebrows and sucked in a deep breath, and then everything about him seemed to contract. His mouth tightened and his eyebrows plunged. His shoulders and elbows folded in, and he shook his head sadly. “My whole wasted life,” he said, his eyes fixed on his lap.
David could tell he was no longer tapping his heels. In fact, Gather had grown very still.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked him.
Ganther closed his eyes and shook his head. “I thought about it so much since I got out. A lot longer than that, even. For most of the time I was in, too. I spent most of the last thirty-five years thinking about it.”
David was quiet, but when Ganther didn’t elaborate, he said, “Thinking about what?”
The older man raised his eyes to the tabletop, and David could see they were filled with tears.
“Thinking about those kids I kilt.”
Chapter 42
DAVID DIDN’T SPEAK right away. He looked at Ganther and could see the man’s eyes had grown calmer. There were also glistening with the sheen of barely contained sorrow.
Finally, after almost a full minute of silence, David said, “Are you talking about the children you killed as a soldier in Vietnam?”
Ganther sucked in a deep breath, and a few of his tears broke free and ran down his cheeks. “There was only one in Vietnam,” he said. “I’m talking about the kids I kilt afterward.” He leaned forward and pressed his eyes into the cups of his palms. His shoulders shook as he began to sob.
David let out a deep breath and nodded to the camera at Ganther’s back. There you go, Pop, he thought. He held up a hand
to make sure no one would take this admission as a signal to join him in the interrogation room.
“James, look at me,” he said softly.
Ganther snorted a few times and swallowed his tears. When he moved his hands away from his face, his eyes were bloodshot with emotion. A small bit of spittle was glistening on his chin, and he wouldn’t look directly at David.
“James, I need you to tell me exactly what you’re talking about.”
Ganther nodded, still not meeting his gaze. “When I got back from Vietnam, I was sick. Sick in my mind. The things we did over there . . . ” He shook his head. “God-awful things. Unspeakable things. We were all smoking drugs, snorting cocaine. Out of our minds and tired and scared. We were in hell, and we all acted like devils.”
David could tell by the way he was speaking that he’d thought these things—had uttered these statements to himself and to others—many times before.
“And I brought that hell home with me,” Ganther continued. “I remember I got back to Philly—to Conshohocken where my wife Gloria was waiting for me—and she could see right away I was a devil. We tried to make it work for a while, but it didn’t. She was a good woman though. She said she’d give me another chance if I got help from professionals. So I tried a couple different psychiatric hospitals. I got better for a time—for a few years—and she stuck with me and got pregnant with our son. But all my anger was still there, and I fell back into drugs. She didn’t want our child to be around all that—around me and the drugs—and so she left me. And I don’t blame her. I think I knew even at the time that it was right, but it still stung like hell. I remember all I’d do was walk around—walk and think and feel like I was in some kind of terrible dream. Everywhere I walked, I saw nothing but happy people. People smiling and laughing and living their lives like none of them understood what had gone on over there in Vietnam. Or they understood it, but didn’t care.” He looked imploringly at David. “I mean, they couldn’t care, could they? If they did, how could they all go around looking and acting the way they did—like everything was just A-Okay?”
