Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

by Mayor, Archer

  But Gail was already looking at me. “You were right about the smell. So it definitely wasn’t Vogel.”

  23

  GAIL PASSED HER HAND ACROSS her forehead lightly, as if making sure it was still attached. Megan Goss watched her carefully.

  “So if Vogel wasn’t the rapist, who was?”

  “Do you accept absolutely that he wasn’t?” Megan asked instead.

  Gail thought about that for a while, gazing out the broad window at the steel bridge spanning the Connecticut River, lorded over by a gray sky, heavy with the first freak snowstorm of the year. “Yes, I do. It’s hard, because it was easier having the man who’d assaulted me in jail, instead of still out there, but I see now it just wasn’t him.”

  Megan nodded, apparently satisfied.

  “Which brings up today’s second major question,” I said, addressing Megan. “Have you been able to come up with a psychological profile of the real rapist?”

  She pursed her lips. “I haven’t had much time for the kind of reflection I prefer. There is one crucial element here, though, that does help, and that’s that whoever did the rape also went to enormous lengths to frame Bob Vogel. That tells me a great deal.”

  She took the file she’d been holding on her lap for the past few hours and laid it on the floor. “Also, I put great value on several aspects of Gail’s account that may have already caught your eye, such as the whispering and the double use of masks—the pillowcase for her, the mask for him—and the almost mechanical methodology of his entire performance. The first two imply a fear of recognition, the third an imitative style. He seems to have forgotten himself only twice—once when he broke the plate that hung on the wall, and said, ‘Shit,’ and again when he beat Gail at the end and called her a ‘snotty goddamn bitch.’ That outburst, coupled with his inability to climax, seems to me to have been quite genuine.”

  “What’s the significance of the plate?” Gail asked.

  “It connects to the lack of damage to the other expensive items in the room, like the television set. Bob Vogel had an utter contempt for his victims, including everything they owned. This man likes fine, expensive things—things he either cannot afford, or couldn’t afford when he was younger. The reference to a snotty bitch reinforces this, since those are words typically used to denigrate someone of a higher social standing than the speaker.”

  “What about the actual phrasing?” I asked. “Wouldn’t Vogel have called her something a little more earthy than a snotty bitch?”

  Goss nodded. “I think so. There is an effeminate quality there that Vogel doesn’t display anywhere. That could be an important insight.”

  “God,” Gail murmured, half to herself.

  “I also think,” Megan continued, “that the use of gloves is telling. Joe, you told me you thought the gloves were part of Vogel’s learning curve, which could’ve been very possible. But I’m caught by the fact that the attacker wore them intermittently. He wanted to feel Gail—that’s one of the reasons he removed all his clothing—but he didn’t want to leave fingerprints or harm his hands when he beat her.” She interrupted herself suddenly to consult the file on the floor. “Which reminds me, Gail… In the statement you gave Joe and Todd Lefevre, the beating is described as immediately following the snotty-bitch comment. Just now, when we got to that part, you mentioned a pause, during which he put the gloves back on. I think that pause is significant. If administering a beating was a normal part of his MO, it would have spontaneously followed the frustrated outburst—simple cause and effect. The fact that he paused to put on gloves tells me that the verbal outburst marked the end of the emotional spike, and that the beating was imitative again—that he was back under control, framing Vogel.”

  “So what’s all that tell you?” I asked, spurred on by what I felt sure was a breakthrough, and eager for something I could actually use.

  “I’d look for someone smart who likes nice things. Also a methodical type—maybe compulsively neat. And a loner.”

  “You mean he lives alone?”

  She shook her head. “Not necessarily. He’s a loner in his head, but the more perceptive around him will notice that about him.” She seemed to hesitate a moment. When she resumed speaking, her attitude had shifted slightly. She sounded more removed, as if distancing herself a bit from her words. “Look, there is a generalized picture I can see in all this, but I’m worried that if I describe it, you’ll take it too literally and perhaps miss the man you’re after.”

  I gave her a slightly helpless expression. “What can I say?”

  She let out a frustrated sigh. “All right. From what Gail told us, we know he’s white and fairly trim. That would fit his personality, which includes keeping in shape, but in a solitary fashion, as with jogging or weight lifting. I’d say he’s aged anywhere from his mid-twenties to his late thirties, but not any younger—his style shows maturity, a control over more youthful impulsiveness. And control is the operative word: He’s meticulous, even rigid, which also means he presents himself physically that way—no torn jeans, untucked shirts, or weekend stubble. That’s also where any effeminate characteristics might be noticed. And he probably collects something to satisfy this need, like stamps or coins, or what-have-you—something tidy and organized.

  “All this camouflages a restless, anguished, insecure, and very violent inner man, whose hatred of women dates way back, and whose violence comes out as revenge against a sex for whom he has nothing but contempt.” She lifted a cautionary finger at me. “But there again you’ll have to watch out, because little or nothing of that will show. This man is a born performer—an actor’s actor. He’ll date women, woo their socks off, and might even have once been, or still be, married—and not necessarily to a mousy, retiring type. Some of these men go after strong women. Whatever the case there, however, I’ll all but guarantee that if you can find out about his youth, you’ll find he comes from a family with serious psychological problems.”

  Megan Goss picked up her thick file and placed it on the desk. I turned off the tape recorder I’d had running from the start of our visit, and rose.

  She shook my hand and gave Gail a hug. “I hope you get him soon. Because if I’m right, and you don’t, he’ll be back—maybe as a killer.”

  · · ·

  I thought at first that the crowd had dispersed around the Municipal Building, either from boredom or because something had lured it away. But the parking lot was still suspiciously full, forcing me to park illegally on the edge of a grass embankment. Entering the building supplied the explanation—the hallway between the patrol-administration side and the detective squad of the police department was lined with a small army of irritable reporters.

  I hadn’t made it three feet past the door before a sharp-eyed young woman leapt to her feet from one of the benches. “Lieutenant Gunther, could we ask you a few questions?”

  I shook my head at the gathering knot of people she’d stimulated. “Not if you want any answers.”

  “Where have you been all day? You digging into something new?”

  “Rumor has it all this is part of a feud between you and the State’s Attorney. Any truth to that?”

  “None whatsoever,” I was stupid enough to answer, adding fuel to the fire. I had planned to retire to my office, but instead I headed directly for Ron Klesczewski’s command center.

  “You’re being credited as the one who undermined Dunn’s case in court. Why did you wait till the last second?”

  “The case was thrown out because the search warrant was invalidated. Does that mean Bob Vogel is still your number-one suspect?”

  Ron Klesczewski looked up at the sudden swell of voices at the door, his face drawn and tired. He smiled at me from behind his long, folder-strewn table and waited until I’d shut the door firmly behind me. “You’re a welcome sight.”

  “Feeling a little besieged?”

  “When I want to use the john, I wait till the last second so I can combine two trips in one. You hear t
he press conference on the radio?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not good. It came out sounding like we weren’t sure if we had the right guy but blew the evidence, or had the wrong guy and were after somebody else. The chief stood by you. Made you sound like the Lone Ranger, fighting for truth and justice. ’Course, that didn’t make Dunn look too good. You could tell the two of them weren’t getting along. The press ate it up.”

  I pulled the tapes I’d made at Megan Goss’s out of my pocket. “Harriet around?”

  “Yeah—I put her in there.” He jerked his thumb at a tiny cubbyhole office that filled one corner of the large room. “All our calls are being transferred in here, too. What’s that?”

  “More proof that Vogel didn’t do it. I want her to transcribe it. What’ve you heard back from our people?”

  “We’re supposed to have an update conference at four.”

  I checked my watch. “Bring ’em in now. Maybe I can cut down on their workload.”

  · · ·

  The setting was less formal than before. People sat on chairs, on the edges of tables; a few were on the floor with their backs to the wall. In all, there were over a dozen of them—detectives, patrolmen in plainclothes, and, inevitably, Brandt and Lefevre.

  I felt an odd combination of skepticism and excitement mingling in the air. “I apologize for yanking you back here on short notice, but I think it’ll be worth your while. Harriet’s been typing a transcript of a conversation Megan Goss had with Gail Zigman this morning after putting her under hypnosis. As a result of that session, we’ve been able to get a more detailed description of the man we’re after.”

  I paused for theatrical effect. “He’s of medium build, flat stomach, no chest hair—although that could have been shaved off for the occasion—between twenty-five and forty, meticulously neat. He also doesn’t smell like a stray dog, which ought to rule out Bob Vogel if nothing else does.”

  There was a polite ripple of muted laughter. “Based on the fact, therefore, that Vogel was carefully framed, I had Goss draw up a psychological profile of the type of man we’re after. I want to use that profile to narrow down our suspects to a revised A-list.”

  “We throwing out the names that don’t fit?” Kunkle asked skeptically.

  “Just moving them to the back. Criminal profiling is a good, time-tested tool, but it’s not always accurate. However, since we’ve got one, we might as well use it. If we don’t get any hits, we’ll go back to knocking on doors.”

  I looked around, as if inviting debate, but I knew the simplicity of the rationale had already won them over. It would mean a hell of a lot less effort if it worked—never the worst incentive to a beleaguered, tired, uncertain team.

  “All right, let’s deal with the solid evidence first—rule out the extremes. Who’s got anyone with either a real gut or who’s skinny as a rail?”

  One of the patrolmen raised his hand tentatively. “I had Barry Gilchrist. He’s pretty scrawny—looks like he’s starving.”

  I nodded. “Okay. He gets bumped. Anyone else?”

  Encouraged, another one said, “Lonny Sorvin’s a porker.”

  Three more names were added to the pile, for one reason or the other.

  “Five down,” I said. “Okay. Goss said that, in all likelihood, we’re after a loner who’s compulsively neat, highly intelligent, likes nice things, and who keeps fit doing a solitary activity, like jogging or weight lifting. She also thinks he probably collects things—stamps, coins, or something similar.”

  “Well, unless it’s empty beer cans, that lets out Harry Murchison,” Willy called out. “He and his girlfriend live like pigs, and he’s dumb as dirt.”

  The laughter that followed was accompanied by several more folders being put aside.

  “Who do we have left?” I asked.

  “There’s still Jason Ryan,” Sammie spoke up. “He’s thin, compulsive, hates women, rides a bike, and doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “He’s also nuts,” someone added.

  J.P. waved a folder in the air. “Philip Duncan fits, and he was on Gail’s original list, but he has an alibi. On the night of the assault, he was at that office party until 2:30 a.m.—lots of witnesses, including Mark Sumner. Of course, Sumner’s on the list, too, and also fits, but of the two of them, I like Duncan better. The realty office they work at is just a few yards away from where those photos were taken of Gail, but at the time, Sumner was showing a property up near Newfane. Duncan claimed he was working at his desk. Said he didn’t see anyone wandering around the sidewalk with a camera.” Tyler’s skepticism showed in his voice.

  I thought of how the buildings were arranged on that street. “You can see the entrance to Gail’s building from that office, can’t you?”

  Tyler raised his eyebrows. “You can see it from Duncan’s desk.” There was a slight lull, which Tyler filled reluctantly, forced by his scientific mind to redress some balance. “The downside to Duncan being our man is still his alibi for the night of the rape. That and the fact that whoever put this whole frame together is too smart to be caught taking pictures of his target in broad daylight on a busy street.”

  “Maybe,” I answered. “Maybe not. Concentrate on Duncan. See if he slipped out of the party early. It could be people just assumed he was there when he wasn’t.”

  Tyler wrote a note to himself. I looked around the room. “Who else?”

  “Richard Clark,” one of Billy’s men said. “The alibi’s pretty wobbly—the whole family shares a huge bed—‘the community bed,’ they call it—but that night, it was only his daughter and him, and she can’t swear he was there all night.”

  There was a predictable amount of snickering at that one, followed by Sammie saying, “Johnston Hill was arranging his mother’s funeral, but the witnesses he mentioned when we first questioned him are starting to go soft—they either don’t want to get involved or they’re lying.”

  “That it?” I asked, checking the list I’d been keeping. “Ryan, Duncan, Sumner, Clark, and Hill. What were Ryan and the last two doing when the photographs were taken?”

  Sammie and the patrolman who’d reported on Clark began flipping through their files. Ron answered for them. “I’ve been keeping track of that. Sumner’s the only one who comes out squeaky clean. The rest of them are like Duncan—they were either at work, with no solid alibis, or doing something downtown that could’ve given them enough time to duck out and take a few shots.”

  “Which makes Sumner kind of stand out,” Willy muttered.

  “That’s true,” I agreed. “He may have an alibi because he knew he’d need it. That would fit a careful planner. Do any of the five of them have priors?”

  Ron answered again. “Well… Ryan, of course. None of the others do.”

  “You said the profile calls for a loner. Does that mean he’s not married?” Sammie asked.

  I shook my head. “Not necessarily. The implication was that he tends to keep to himself more than not, but he could be the ultimate actor, able to play any role he likes.”

  Kunkle was obviously tiring of all the abstractions. “So what the hell’re we supposed to do? Bust the tidiest one with the highest IQ?”

  “Goss’s recommendation,” I answered, “was that since we know this man hates women, we might get lucky using an aggressive woman to punch his buttons.”

  I bowed slightly to Sammie. “I’d like to send you in to interview each of these men—at their homes, if possible, so you can look around a bit. Really turn the heat up under them—make each one think he’s our primary suspect, that we’re on the brink of making an arrest. You’ll be wearing a wire at each interview, of course, and have a backup team of a detective and a plainclothes patrol officer that’ll remain behind to tail the suspect afterward. Goss thinks those who are innocent will most likely run to their lawyers, the board of selectmen, or whoever, to raise a stink.” I turned to Brandt. “Which means you better warn the town manager he might be getting some calls.
<
br />   “Conversely, she also thinks the one we’re after will probably sit tight and bide his time. If it works out that way, it might save us some wear and tear and allow us to focus on one individual.”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” Sammie said without hesitation.

  “That may be what you get,” Willy countered. “If this man really does have a thing against women, and we convince him he’s got nowhere to turn, what’s to stop him from blowing your head off?”

  There was a moment’s silence as we all considered the strong possibility that he could be right. “We’ll just take precautions,” Tony finally said softly. But everyone knew better than to take too much comfort in that.

  24

  AS PROMISED IT WAS SNOWING—large, featherlike flakes, falling so gently they seemed unsure they wanted to land at all. When they did, however, they stuck, the ground being cold enough to keep them from melting. Not only was this the earliest preseason snowfall I’d ever seen, it had already covered the ground with a good two inches.

  I hit the windshield wipers to clear my view of Johnston Hill’s elongated split-level Harris Avenue home. I was parked, motor running but lights out, about three houses south. Tyler and one of Billy’s patrolmen were north of me in Tyler’s personal vehicle. All three of us were listening to Sammie Martens grilling Hill.

  Her approach was similar to what she’d used on Philip Duncan an hour earlier, and on Richard Clark and Mark Sumner at the beginning of this process. And Johnston Hill was reacting similarly to Clark and Sumner, too—helpful at first, then apparently stunned into shocked disbelief, and finally flailing in anger and outrage.

  She was very good, her voice reeking of suspicion, her theatrical pauses of blatant incredulity. She wielded her pointed, accusatory questions like a stick to keep them off balance. I could picture her dark, intense expression adding to her impassioned fierceness.

  And it was working. Each of the men had reacted to the pressure. Even Philip Duncan—the coolest of the three—had finally demanded she leave his house, albeit without fanfare. Richard Clark—he of the community bed—had become hysterical, falling apart when she’d asked him who slept where, what they wore, and—more insinuating—what they didn’t. But since their sleeping arrangement had been used as an alibi, he couldn’t force her to drop the subject. He’d finally admitted that there were times he was driven—by claustrophobia, by incestuous fantasy, by the futile desire to make love privately to his wife—to seek the solace of the couch downstairs.