by G. M. Ford
“Acquitted again.”
“June ninety-nine—assault with a dangerous weapon. Namely, a boat.”
“Some folks think boats have brakes.”
“Judge thought you didn’t make much of an effort to avoid. He fined you thirty-five hundred dollars and put you on three years’ probation.”
Lewis removed his glasses, set them on the papers, and massaged the bridge of his nose. “If you’ll permit me a professional courtesy, Mr. Corso. If I were you, I think I’d maintain a considerably lower profile. Seems to me that with your recent past and known associates, you’re about fresh out of judicial understanding.”
“Which known associates would those be?”
Lewis retrieved his glasses. Turned a page. “You’re denying your association with Anitole Kashlikov?”
“I know Mr. Kashlikov.”
“In what capacity?”
“I hired Mr. Kashlikov as a security consultant.”
“To protect you?”
“To teach me how to protect myself.”
Lewis fanned the pages.
“Seems he did his job rather well.”
“He came highly recommended.”
“Perhaps it would surprise you to know that Mr. Kashlikov is a former KGB operative.”
“So he said.”
“Did he also say that he was personally responsible for what some members of our intelligence community believe to be nearly a hundred killings?”
“He must have skipped that part.”
Before the agent could continue, Corso said, “Agent Lewis, much as I appreciate the little rap-sheet retrospective, as my professional courtesy, I’m offering you and the Bureau this opportunity to comment on the story before it appears. If you’d prefer not to…” Corso spread his hands.
Lewis pointed the spoon at him. “As much as I’m touched by your consideration, Mr. Corso, I’m afraid I must admit to a bit of personal annoyance.”
Corso tried to look surprised. “Oh?”
“I mean, it’s not every day that a felon comes waltzing into my office and starts throwing around veiled threats.”
Corso pulled his notepad from his back pocket. “Can I quote you on that?” he asked. “We do like to provide balanced coverage.”
The two men maintained eye contact for a long moment. Lewis blinked first.
“The Bureau was involved in the Himes case in a purely consultational and tangential manner.” He said it like that was supposed to be the end of it.
“You had two Quantico profilers in town for a month,” Corso said. “They must have been doing something other than sampling the salmon.”
“Profiling is still a new science,” Lewis said. “At best, we can help to narrow down a list of suspects. All we are able to do is to describe the general type of individual we believe most likely to have committed the crime, based on the information we’ve been given by local law-enforcement authorities.” He waved the spoon. “Sometimes the magic works; sometimes it doesn’t.”
Corso got to his feet. Played his hole card. Hoping like hell that old habits did indeed die hard. “Thanks for your time, Agent Lewis. I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I thought maybe you’d prefer being part of the story rather than being forced to recite the company line every day until it becomes untenable.” He slapped the side of his head with his palm. “Can’t imagine what I was thinking.” He started for the door. Got all the way across the room, grabbed the handle.
“You’re one arrogant prick, you know that, Corso?” Lewis said.
It took all of Corso’s resolve not to grin. As much as the Federal Bureau of Investigation loved to hog the limelight, they hated any hint of blame even more. Latent J. Edgar Hooverism: Rule one: When you secretly wear a tutu, there’s no such thing as paranoia.
Corso threw his final card. “’Cause you know, Agent Lewis, when the Bureau has to come back later on and admit their earlier denials were a crock of shit, it’ll be your ass up there in front of the microphones explaining away the fertilizer.”
Lewis started to speak. Corso raised his voice. “…and then it’s gonna be your ass transferred to some godforsaken outpost where you won’t be holding any further press conferences. That’s how they work. You know the drill better than I do.”
Lewis’s jaw was set. Corso forced himself to stand still and shut up.
“I’ll have to make some calls,” Lewis said finally.
“I’m not waiting in here,” Corso said.
The agent’s lips curled in a thin smile. “You don’t like the decor?”
“The boogers on the walls are a nice touch,” Corso said.
“We strive for authenticity.”
“No attribution. An unnamed source…That’s all.”
“Agreed.”
“For the time being, the Bureau is neither going to confirm nor deny.”
“Understood.”
“And”—he waved two fingers at Corso—“should we deem it necessary, you will publicly acknowledge that the Bureau has cooperated from the very outset of your investigation.”
“Done.”
Lewis opened a red spiral-bound case file. “What do you know about profiling?”
“I covered the Wayne Williams trial in Atlanta,” Corso said. 1981. His first big story for the Atlanta Constitution. The FBI’s first big profiling victory. Conventional wisdom insisted the murder of so many black children surely must be a crime with overt racial overtones, perhaps even intended as the prelude to a race war. Despite heavy criticism, the Bureau’s newly appointed behavioral specialists steadfastly insisted the perp would turn out to be a soft-spoken black man, who, in all likelihood, lived at home with his parents and who would at some point in the investigation likely offer his services to the investigating officers. About the time Wayne Williams walked up and offered to act as a crime-scene photographer, profiling took a major leap forward. Corso could still see the soft mama’s boy with the “I wouldn’t hurt a fly” face. And still smell the brown, roiling waters of the Chattahoochee River where Williams threw nearly thirty children after he’d finished mutilating and sexually abusing them.
“Then you know the basics. What we’re talking about here is educated guesswork and extensive crime-scene analysis.” Lewis leafed to the back of the document. “We postulated a white male between twenty-five and thirty-five.” Lewis looked up. So far so good: Himes had been thirty-four at the time of his arrest.
“Employed in some menial capacity,” Lewis continued.
“Why employed?” Corso asked. Himes had been long-term homeless, with virtually no work history at all.
Lewis flattened the report with his palm and turned the page toward Corso. A greater Seattle map with bright green dots marking the crime scenes.
“The distance between the crime scenes. Seven miles, north to south. Too far to walk. Had to have a car. A van, we figured.”
“Why a van?”
Lewis took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Because of the way he took his time with the victims. He had to have someplace secure where he could have his way with them at his leisure.”
“Leisure?”
“That was one of the holdbacks,” Lewis said. Holdbacks are significant pieces of signature evidence that investigators “hold back” from the media. Sometimes as a means of weeding out copycat killers and false confessors. Sometimes merely to spare the survivors particularly gruesome details. Lewis went on. “The killer took his time with them. Strangled them some, then sexually assaulted them, then strangled them some more. Then another assault. Got longer and longer as the spree went on. There’s evidence to suggest he kept the last three alive overnight.” Lewis read Corso’s mind. “Ligature shows up as hemorrhages on the victims’ eyeballs. The more hemorrhages, the more repetitions of ligature.”
Corso felt his breakfast shift. “So he had a car, probably a van. Which means he probably had a driver’s license and on some level was getting by in society.”
Didn’t sound a bit like Walter Leroy. “Why a menial job?” Corso asked.
“Experience suggests that most often this kind of suspect lacks normal interpersonal skills. Probably has a spotty employment history. Has trouble getting along with other people. Has problems with authority. He’s usually the guy who eats lunch by himself because he’d rather be alone.”
“What else?”
“Probably lives in a dependent relationship with someone from whom he derives monetary support. Most likely a woman. A sister…a mother. Probably not a wife. A conflict with the female is most likely what triggered the first murder.” Lewis looked up at Corso. “Which, unfortunately, we were not onboard for. They didn’t call us in until the third girl was found. That made things a lot harder.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because abducting women from public places is so high-risk, we would assume that the perp knew the early crime scenes well. Violent offenders usually start off in places where they feel most comfortable and at home. That’s why the first crime in a series is so important. Back in eighty-nine, the Quantico boys turned a guy in Alabama who’d killed four women. Found a couple of neighborhood hookers who told them about a customer who couldn’t get his rocks off unless they played dead. Bingo.”
“Remind me—where was the first body found?”
Lewis rifled through the report. “Susanne Tovar. Twenty-two. Found in a Dumpster behind Julia’s Bakery on Eastlake Avenue. January seventh, nineteen ninety-eight.” He turned back to the first page. “We didn’t come onboard until the twenty-ninth of the month.”
“So they missed their best chance.”
“Don’t get me wrong, we worked the area like a big dog. It stood to reason that he might have been a neighborhood problem for years. Burglaries…assaults…maybe fires. Killers don’t go from shoplifting to serial murders. They generally work their way up to it with a series of increasingly violent crimes, until some stressor in their lives finally pushes them over the top. After that, they’re like junkies. It takes more and more to get them off.”
“So you would expect the suspect to have a record that reflected a history of escalating violence? Not a kiddie pervert like Himes.”
“Exactly,” Lewis said. “Crimes against kids exhibit a completely different psychology than crimes against adults.”
Walter Leroy Himes had neither a history of violence nor of sex crimes involving other adults. “So,” Corso began, “what we would expect to see is a single white man between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. A loner, working at some menial job. Nominally, at least, getting along in society. Capable of getting from point A to point B on his own. Probably drives a van of some sort. Most likely lives with his mother or sister. History of increasingly violent acts against adults. Did I leave anything out?”
“A possible religious element.”
“Oh?”
“The team felt that the Dumpster angle might have had symbolic overtones. The perp went to a lot of trouble in the way the girls were arranged. In several cases, he rearranged the contents of the Dumpsters so he could lay the girls out the way he wanted. As if he were trying to say something. They had the feeling that the ceremonial nature of the arrangement was his way of justifying his actions. Almost as if by placing his victims just so, the perp was saying that he had a right to do what he was doing.”
“That’s pretty goddamn crazy,” Corso said.
“A lot crazier than Himes has ever been.”
“And you shared all this with the Seattle Police Department?”
Lewis leafed back to the front of the report. “SPD received the report on April fifth, nineteen ninety-eight. Three weeks after the arrest. Two months before trial.”
Corso flipped through his notes. “A while back you said that the way the Trashman dallied with his victims was ‘one of the holdbacks.’ Were there others?”
Lewis nodded but didn’t speak. “The tags,” he said after a moment. Corso waited. “Ovine ear tags,” Lewis said. “In the left ear of each victim.”
“Ovine?”
“Sheep,” Lewis said. “Postmortem, he punched a hole in the earlobe and tagged each of them like livestock. Drew a heart on the tag with Magic Marker.” Lewis slid over a glossy photograph from the report. Mercifully, it was an extreme close-up. Dark hair obscuring the eye. The nape of a thin neck dotted by bits of eggshell. A white plastic band, doubled and connected to the left ear by a rivet.
Crooked little heart drawn on the white plastic.
Corso raised his eyes to meet Lewis’s. The agent shrugged. Retrieved the photo. Closed the report. Got to his feet. He started for the door.
“Off the record,” Corso said to his back.
Lewis stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“Just between you and me and the wall. You think SPD got the right guy? You think Himes is the Trashman?”
“No way,” Lewis said. “I didn’t think so then, and I don’t think so now.”
“The killings stopped.”
“Most likely he’s in jail for something else. Maybe he moved. Maybe he died.” His lips formed a crooked smile. “Look on the bright side, Corso. You’ve got a whole four days to figure it out.”
Chapter 10
Tuesday, September 18
11:22 A.M. Day 2 of 6
“Robert.” That voice from downstairs. Sounded like a machine needed oil. He was glad for the sound of the damn radio. Even some lame-ass Doobie Brothers shit about Jesus bein’ all right was better than the voice.
“Robert” again. He rolled over and faced the wall. And what the hell was with the Robert shit anyway? How many times he have to tell her? Nobody but her call him Robert. Name be Fury. You ask anybody. They’ll tell you that man Fury is a taggin’ fool. Look around, man. Fury’s name is everywhere.
“Robert.” Oh crap, she was coming up the stairs. Maybe she’d forget about the missing tread. Serve her right to bust her ass. He heard her grunt as she stepped over the hole. Shit! He rolled over, swung his legs upward, and put his feet on the floor. Rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Eyeballs felt like they were full of sand. He cracked his eyes open, glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand: 11:25. On her way to work. Get through the next five minutes and her sorry ass be gone till late.
The door banged open. Bustin’ a bigger hole in his beloved Tony Hawk poster.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Hey…hey,” he managed to croak. “What’s happening?” She stood there, hands on hips, making that pissy face of hers. “I doan know, Robert. I’m working too damn hard to keep track of what’s happening anymore.” Oh, man…not this shit again. He bent his head and began picking the lint from between his toes. “I’ll tell you one thing, though, whatever is happening, happened about three hours ago. Ain’t nothing much going to happen, you doan get yourself out of bed in the morning, boy.” He tried not to groan. Jesus, ain’t got no respect for me at all.
“So where you lookin’ for a job today?”
He checked the window. More rain. Can’t look for work in the rain.
“Doan gimme that look!” she hollered.
“I din’ say nothin’.”
“What kind of look is that? Getting a job is what folks do when they ain’t going to school no more. No cause to be lookin’ at me like that. I’m not the one got myself expelled from Garfield High School. So now you get your butt out there and find yourself a job. You think I’m spending the rest of my life supportin’ yourself, you gotta nother think comin’. You hear me, young man? Anotha think comin’.”
“I been lookin’,” he protested.
“Maybe do something profitable wid your time, insteada hangin’ out wid losers like that Tommy Hutton and that other one wid the thing in his tongue, wid them damn spray cans of you-alls, vandalizin’ other people’s walls and everything.”
“I’m lookin’, Mom,” he said. He unwound himself from the covers and got to his feet, s
tretched his arms over his head hoping his morning hard-on would drive her out of the room.
“Gonna be late tonight. You be here when I get home. You hear me?”
He wanted to tell her to page him. Call whenever she got through screwin’ that fat Korean grocer she work for. Instead, said, “Yeah…sure.”
She gave him another long dose of the pissy look and said, “This here is serious shit. Robert. Ain’t about no job pushin’ burgers…the question is about what in hell you gonna do wid the rest of your life. And believe me, baby, you listen to your momma here—the rest of your life is a hell of a long time.”
No, Robert thought, the question is…where in hell am I gonna get eighteen bucks for paint? This kinda shitty weather, nothin’ but the best will stick. Cheap shit just roll down, make a puddle on the ground.
She turned and left the room. Left the damn door open. No respect at all.
Chapter 11
Wednesday, September 19
7:00 A.M. Day 3 of 6
She brought the morning paper. Dropped it on the seat between them. “FBI—No Way!” A cup of Starbucks coffee steamed softly between her hands.
“Morning,” she said. Her eyes were puffy around the edges, and a faint pillow mark dented her right cheek. “You want to hear what I got yesterday?”
“Too early,” Corso growled. “You’d just have to tell me again.”
“Good,” she said, sipping the coffee, rolling the cup in her hands. She snuggled the cup against her chest, pointed at the paper. “Quarter to seven in the morning and that was the last paper left in the machine,” she said.
“Hawes said the plant’s got orders to keep printing today’s street edition until somebody tells them to stop,” Corso said. “CNN was quoting us this morning.”
She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.
“You want to drive?” he asked, hoping like hell she didn’t.
“No” was the last word she said until Corso stopped for gas on the outskirts of Yakima, two hours later. He was pumping gas when she buzzed the window down and poured out the leftover coffee. “Where are we?” She yawned. Corso told her.
