by Alan Russell
The act of murder is repugnant to most of us. Ellis Haines doesn’t seem to see the horror in a grisly crime scene.
“How very banal,” said Haines; he turned the picture over and went on to the next.
By now he’d gone through more than two-thirds of the pile. “Let me consult my notes,” I said, looking at my blank notebook. “So far, the pictures you’ve seen have inspired you to say, ‘boring,’ ‘derivative,’ ‘uninspired,’ and ‘insipid.’”
“Let’s not forget ‘soporific’ and ‘ennui inducing,’” he said, turning over another photo. Then he added, “There are two Ns in ennui.”
“Oui, oui, oui,” I said, “all the way home.”
Haines didn’t call me out for being so puerile, but only because one of the pictures suddenly had all his attention. He was preternaturally still; only his eyes moved. Haines usually likes to lecture me about what he sees, especially if he thinks he’s offering insights that have been missed by others, but for a minute or more, he was silent while taking in all the details of the picture.
Finally, he put aside the picture and read the write-up of the case. The synopsis of events was met with a disdainful snort and Haines saying, “They have eyes but cannot see.”
Whenever Haines quotes scripture, I am reminded of the Bard’s line: The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
“It took them all this time,” he said, “to decide that this homicide was likely the work of a serial murderer. Likely.”
Haines shook his head before continuing: “And even now there is some speculation that the man’s death was the result of a hunting accident.”
He passed me the pictures and I looked through them. The victim was a white male, age fifty-eight. He had been duck hunting and died of a bullet wound to his eye.
I decided to play devil’s advocate. The best way to get Haines talking is to take up a position contrary to his own. “The man was hunting,” I said, “in an area that draws hunters. I can understand how it would be reasonable, then, to wonder if the death might not have been accidental.”
“There was nothing accidental in this,” Haines said. “Even the Feds were aware enough to realize the body was moved. And that made them question whether that might have been done in order to stage the crime scene.”
“You believe it was staged?”
“Without a doubt,” he said.
“And what do you see that others have missed?”
“Bullets and ducks,” he said.
I looked at the pictures, and then at Haines. “Bullets and ducks,” I said.
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.
“Both of those things seem to have been taken into account. The report tells us the hunter field dressed the duck he shot, and the picture shows the hunter was shot in the eye.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck.”
“What does the duck tell you? What do you think when you look at it?”
“Duck a l’orange,” I said.
He waved away my humor as if it were offensive gas. “Both bullets and ducks are symbolic,” he said. “Both stand for something. In poker, bullets refer to aces, and ducks refer to twos. The crime scene was staged to show a hand of ace-two. The killer has announced that hunting season has begun.”
“Hunting season?” I questioned.
“If you played poker,” he said, “you would know the reference. Players refer to an ace-two hand as hunting season.”
“If you’re duck hunting,” I said, “then it stands to reason that you’re dealing with bullets and ducks.”
“Not bullets,” he said, “pellet shots.”
“Maybe the second hunter was going after deer.”
“This wasn’t a hunting accident so much as it was an assassination,” he said. “The killer wasn’t trying to bag Bambi. And even if you’re being purposely slow on accepting the announcement of hunting season, there is another obvious clue that shows that the crime scene was staged.”
I didn’t ask Haines what that clue was. Had I done that, he might have withheld the information. He likes others to be in awe of his perspicacity. So I said, “I’ll tell the FBI that, according to the smartest boy wearing prison orange, they need to look for another clue.”
“Or you might stop being intellectually lazy and look for that clue yourself. It’s about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.”
“That, I recognize,” I said. “You’re stealing a line from Raymond Chandler.”
“I’ll give you a sporting chance to figure out the obvious,” said Haines, emphasizing his taunt.
I picked up the crime scene photos, and then looked at the write-up. The victim had been out hunting in Colorado in the middle of November. It was believed the hunter became the hunted in the very early morning.
It would have been cold, I thought. So why had the hunter removed his coat and his sweater? The man’s Pendleton shirt was also unbuttoned. He was wearing a white T-shirt with a red L enclosed by a black oval. The L was situated almost like a bull’s-eye, and there was something familiar about it. My first consideration was that it was the first letter of a college or professional team, much like a red N represents Nebraska, and a blue M stands for Michigan. Louisville, I thought, but I was pretty sure the Cardinals didn’t advertise themselves in such a way. I considered and also rejected Louisiana.
Haines was watching my struggles. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.
“Why would you remove several layers of clothing on a cold day,” I said, “and what does the red L on the hunter’s T-shirt stand for?”
“If only you had an interest in meteorology,” he said.
“If only you didn’t,” I said.
Haines was a meteorologist. For years he’d been the weekend weatherman on an LA television station. Because he’d strangled his victims during Santa Ana conditions, his lawyers were now trying to claim that Haines was susceptible to wild mood swings during certain weather events. It was an ailment they said was like seasonal affective disorder, or SAD. The media had picked up on the claim and were referring to Haines’s supposed condition as SAD Mad.
Belatedly, I made sense of the hint he’d offered. “That red L is the meteorological shorthand for a low-pressure system.”
Half politely, half mockingly, Haines clapped his hands.
“So, as you see it,” I said, “a crime scene was staged with poker and weather clues. That hardly seems coincidental.”
“As you say.”
“You seem to have been the target audience for this communication. Any idea who did this?”
“I suspect this was the first letter sent to me, but it is clear there will be more.”
“How is that clear?”
“There is another meteorological clue. I believe it is both an homage offered up to me and a cautionary piece of advice to those doing the investigating.”
“And what is that?”
“On the ground near the victim’s right hand is an umbrella. I find it unlikely that the dead hunter would have brought an umbrella on a hunting trip. You can’t hold an umbrella and shoot a shotgun at the same time. And his camo outfit is designed for inclement weather. If my eyes aren’t mistaken, on the casing of the umbrella there is what looks to be an imprint, or a decal, of dark clouds with a lightning bolt. That is not a brand or a logo I know; instead, it is a weather image that is used nowadays to indicate thunder and lightning. Donner und Blitz, Detective. I think you’ll find the killer somehow applied that image to the casing so as to announce stormy weather. You might remember at my first trial I made much the same announcement, but in a more memorable fashion.”
At his trial, Haines had interrupted court proceedings by singing the song “Stormy Weather.” I have heard that Haines’s creepy courtroom serenade has resulted in a few hundred million YouTube views, a number that far exceeds the views of the brillian
t renditions recorded by Billie Holiday and Lena Horne. Go figure.
I began asking questions and taking notes. “Any idea when you’ll next hear from the killer?”
“More than four months have passed since the hunter was murdered,” he said. “I need you to emphasize to the FBI that I require timely information. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if our killer had already struck again.”
“But how would the killer know you’ve seen his handiwork?”
“The news that I am assisting the FBI in looking at crime scene photos isn’t exactly secret. And good poker players understand the necessity of a long game. Even had I missed the initial murder, the killer knew it would only be a matter of time before his note reached me.”
“If another murder has already occurred,” I said, “can we expect the killer will be trying to communicate with you through the languages of poker and weather?”
“That’s exactly what I’d expect,” said Haines.
“Any predictions as to the next killing?” I asked. “Is there anything the FBI should be looking for?”
“I’m not ready to make any rash predictions.”
“Do you expect another shooting death?”
“I would think not. Aces have already been played. If I am correct in that assumption, the killer might be proceeding in a numerical progression. That would mean a cowboy would be up next.”
“Which is what?”
“King Kong,” he said with a knowing smile, “or Elvis. There is no shortage of poker nicknames for a king.”
I remembered the questions Detective Andrea Charles had wanted me to ask Haines and thought this was a good time to broach them.
“The only thing I know about poker,” I said, “is that if I don’t want to lose my shirt, I better not play the game.”
“I would think it would be right up your alley, Detective. Poker is as much about psychology as it is mathematics. And I know how you love to play mind games.”
“The pot just called the kettle black.”
“I imagine if you put your mind to it, you could be a good player. Your work requires you to bluff and call bluffs. And from personal experience, I know you are always looking for tells.”
“I guess I’m cheap,” I said. “I don’t like the idea of losing money.”
“If you play the game right, you will win more than lose. And you can play poker online on some no-charge sites, but don’t expect much in the way of competition.”
“Did you play online?”
“On occasion I did,” he said, “although I much preferred playing at tables where I could gauge the competition.”
“You liked to see the whites of their eyes?”
“Some players wear shades to prevent that. But they can’t hide their body language.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t buy a condo in Las Vegas. It was your second home for years.”
“The hotels sometimes comped me a room. At the worst, I’d get a major discount.”
“Where’d you like to stay?”
He named a few spots on the Strip and a few off. Showing up the FBI, and showing how smart he was by interpreting crime scene photos, had put Haines in an unusually good mood. I tried to take advantage of that and get him talking even more.
“I heard you played in the World Series of Poker,” I said.
“Twice,” he said. “I did it the old-fashioned way, though. I won enough in satellite tournaments to cover my buy-in. To enter the tournament, there’s no rule that you have to be a good player. You can be a fish if you have the ten-thousand-dollar entry fee.”
“How’d you do in your two tournaments?”
“I ended up in the money, and in the top five hundred players, in both of them.”
“And how many players entered?”
“Between six and seven thousand.”
“You beat the odds.”
“I never made it to the finals table. That’s still a goal of mine.”
His eyes challenged mine, and I said, “Don’t expect me to wish you good luck.”
“I know better,” he said.
“I’m going to have to spend three days in Vegas next week,” I said. “But I think I’ll stick to blackjack.”
“Why will you be there?”
“An assistant DA wants my testimony in an LVPD case. Got some good restaurant tips for me? I’d prefer to be away from the glitz.”
Haines played the seasoned tour guide, rattling off half a dozen restaurants and lounges that he said only the locals frequented. I wrote down the names. When I looked up, Haines had stopped talking. It might have been my imagination, but he seemed to be regarding me differently, perhaps even suspiciously.
“This is the first time we’ve ever talked poker,” he said.
“This is the first time a murderer has shown us his cards, so to speak.”
“This is also the first time we’ve talked about Las Vegas.”
“Poker and Las Vegas go hand in hand.”
Haines offered an almost imperceptible nod, but he didn’t look convinced.
“I have a flight to catch,” I told him, “and calls to make. The FBI is going to want to hear about hunting season, a low-pressure network, and stormy weather.”
Reminding him that he had seen what the FBI had missed seemed to mollify Haines, but his guard was still up. He had sensed there was more to my questioning than I had let on. I wondered what tell had alerted him.
I called to the correctional officer and said our session was done.
“Enjoy your time in Las Vegas,” Haines said as he stood up. He turned around, slid his hands through the slot, and was handcuffed once more. When the correctional officers unlocked the door, Haines had one last piece of advice for me.
“Tell the FBI to look for a recent homicide where a sword or an axe was used. And I want them to get me the pictures as soon as possible.”
“A sword or an axe?”
He heard my puzzlement and saw it in my expression, and that seemed to please him.
“You heard correctly,” he said.
And then he started down the hallway, clanking like Jacob Marley’s ghost. Marley had offered up the sins of his past as an example to Scrooge. I was hoping that Ellis Haines had inadvertently done the same for me.
Chapter Eleven
Not Your Usual Axe Murderer
The murder weapon turned out to be an axe. The son of a bitch had called it correctly.
If I’d been smart, I would have made the card and weapon connection on my own. In a typical pack of playing cards, three of the kings brandish swords. The king of diamonds is the odd man out. He wields an axe. Card players refer to him as the “man with an axe.”
An axe murderer had cleaved the skull of John Crabbe in Trinidad, Colorado, last week. Mr. Crabbe, an eighty-four-year-old widower, had the misfortune of being the only Crabbe in town.
As part of my belated poker education, I learned that a king-three hand is often referred to as King Crab. Card players apparently think the number three looks like a sideways crab. I guess the killer was now saying it wasn’t only hunting season; it was also crab season, or at least poor–Mr. Crabbe season.
Unfortunately for me, poker players have a lot of nicknames for two-card hands, which meant I had a lot of memorizing to do if I wanted to try and predict the actions of the killer. There were also meteorological symbols to acquaint myself with. Weather symbols had been left at the Crabbe crime scene, but they hadn’t been noticed until after the fact, when investigators were advised as to what they should be looking for. It’s easier to look smart when you’re given the answers to the test.
It was my FBI contact who told me about the investigation into Mr. Crabbe’s death the day after my visit with Haines. Special Agent Ben Corning seemed unusually deferential and friendly when he called, but then people often are when they want a favor. The Feds wanted me to visit Haines for a second time that month and deliver him a packet relating to Mr. Crabbe’s murder. I politely decl
ined. Seeing Haines once a month was penance enough.
The special agent tried to keep me on the line in the hopes of winning me over through sustained conversation. “Our serial killer is being referred to by two nicknames,” he said. “Maybe we have another Ellis Haines on our hands.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“There are two vying camps,” Corning said. “The weather geeks want to call him the Stormy Weather Killer; the card sharps are lobbying for the All-In Killer.
“I’m in the card-sharp camp,” Corning said. “Which do you like?”
“I like Nail the SOB.”
“That’s not a name we could release to the public.”
“I’ve never figured out why serial murderers are given nicknames. Is it some rule in the Bureau?”
Ted Bundy had been the Lady Killer; David Berkowitz went by the Son of Sam. And there had been the Grim Sleeper, the BTK Killer, the Night Stalker, and the Killer Clown, just to name a few.
“I think it’s a carryover from the military,” Corning said. “There’s a long tradition of giving nicknames to the enemy.”
It was a good way to depersonalize the enemy, I thought. And it was a good tool to get the media to report on the killer. In that, it served its purpose.
“I’ll leave you to your name game,” I said. “I have to run.”
Corning hurriedly spoke before I could end the call. “If you reconsider going to see Haines,” he said, but that was as far as he got.
What I hadn’t told Special Agent Corning, or anyone at the FBI, was that I was working on putting a permanent end to my visiting Haines in San Quentin. That would only come about, though, if I got the goods on him in Nevada and he was extradited. There were a variety of reasons I wanted him to be convicted in Nevada; primary among them was the appeal his lawyers were working on in California. I had lied under oath when I said that I had read Haines his rights before arresting him, and I didn’t want that lie to haunt me. The hard truth was that I wasn’t sure if I could lie under oath a second time. There were also some LAPD procedural issues his lawyers were questioning. If I recanted, Haines might have grounds for a successful appeal.
