by Scott Pratt
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I appreciate the concern.”
“So I guess you’re wondering what’s going on here.”
“You could say that.”
“Reasonable suspects,” Fraley said. “Boyer was thrown out of Brockwell’s school the same year he retired. The boy has a long juvie record, mostly drug related, a couple of assaults. His probation officer says he’s dyed his hair black recently, so he might be a Goth. The other one, Barnett, is still a juvenile. He’s only sixteen, but he’s already spent a year in detention. He’s got drug charges, a couple of thefts, three assaults, one of them aggravated. The aggravated assault is what got him shipped off. Hit a kid with a baseball bat and broke his leg. He’s only been out of detention three months. He’s still on probation, and his probation officer said the last time she saw him, which was two weeks ago, he’d dyed his hair jet-black. Looks promising.”
“She said something about a third,” I said. “I think she said ‘one who commands.’ Something about the daughter of Satan, so it must be a female.”
“Did you get a name?”
“No.”
Fraley raised his eyebrows.
“She was telling me all this stuff; it was weird. I think I was trying to figure out how she knew about the murders; then I got a phone call from my son and I had to leave. I thought she’d give the name to you. Sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it. If these two are the right ones, they’ll lead us to the third. Are you sure you got the girl’s name right?”
“Which girl?”
“The one in the park. Are you sure her name was Alisha Elizabeth Davis?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Alisha Elizabeth Davis was reported missing by her foster parents the day after the Brockwells were killed.”
Fraley slid a piece of paper across the desk towards me. At the top was a black-and-white photograph of the girl on the bench, eye patch and all. Alisha Elizabeth Davis, born April eleventh, 1989, one hundred and fifteen pounds, red hair, blue eyes, last seen on the morning of September twenty-eighth.
“I’ve got a couple of guys talking to her foster parents now,” Fraley said.
“Jesus, this gets stranger by the minute.”
“So, what do you suggest we do next, counselor? Can we get arrest warrants or search warrants based solely on the word of somebody who claims to be a psychic, especially one who’s listed as missing?”
“I guess we could put twenty-four-hour-a-day surveillance on them,” I said. “Wait and see where it leads us, but I’d hate to take a chance on someone else getting killed while we’re waiting. I’d also hate to take a chance on somebody screwing up and them finding out we’re onto them.”
“Why don’t we just pick them up?” Fraley said. “Simultaneously. We bring them back here, make sure they see each other, but keep them isolated. We play them off of each other.”
“And what if they refuse to talk to us? What if they say they don’t want to come?”
“Is what you got from the girl enough to detain them?”
“I don’t know. It’s a close call.”
“But what if she turns out to be right?”
“We have to have probable cause to arrest them, but all we need is reasonable suspicion to detain them. I just don’t know if the word of someone who says she’s psychic is enough, especially since she vanished. Not much legal precedent in that area. If we pick them up and somebody confesses, we risk losing everything on a motion to suppress later.”
“No judge in his right mind would turn these bastards loose if they turn out to be the killers,” Fraley said. “I don’t give a damn what the legalities are.”
I sat back to think it through, trying to imagine the argument in front of a judge later on. We’d had six horrific murders within a three-week period and had enough similarities to reasonably believe the murders were connected. We’d received an unsolicited drawing from an anonymous source that very accurately depicted the second murder scene. We’d followed up on the drawing and located the witness, who said she knew who committed the murders but left before she told us how she knew. She gave us her name and the names of the killers. One of the names she provided was at least indirectly connected to Norman Brockwell. We had another witness who said she saw two Goths getting out of the Becks’ van, and both of our suspects had recently died their hair black, at least indicating the possibility that they might be Goths. Both of them had criminal records, including violence. The witness also told us the killers would strike again. We assessed the risk to the public and, in good faith, decided to act.
“The biggest problem I have is that there isn’t a good-faith exception to the warrant requirement in Tennessee.”
“Say again?” Fraley said. “In English?”
“You have to have probable cause to get a warrant, right?”
“Right.”
“There have been federal cases and cases in other states where judges have ruled that the police lacked probable cause for an arrest, but because they acted in good faith, they upheld the legality of the arrest. It’s called the good-faith exception. Tennessee doesn’t recognize it.”
“Maybe it’s time they did,” Fraley said.
“You’re right,” I said. “This may be the test case. You start getting your people together to coordinate the arrests and the searches and I’ll go draft the warrants. See if you can get some lab people to come in early in case we need them. Which judge is the easiest when it comes to getting warrants signed?”
“Judge Rogers, especially after he’s been home long enough to start drinking. He’ll sign anything.”
“Then Rogers it is. We’ll pick both of them up, search their homes, cars, whatever. Let’s put the screws to them.”
Monday, October 6
There were only thirteen Tennessee Bureau of Investigation agents assigned to the criminal field investigation unit in all of northeast Tennessee. Those thirteen agents covered twenty-one counties and eight judicial districts. Ten of them had been assigned temporarily to our murder cases, with Fraley at the point.
I was amazed at how quickly they’d been able to mobilize the agents, and once they were all up and running, it was mind-boggling to see how much information they could gather and how quickly they could gather it. We’d identified two suspects at around ten a.m. Fourteen hours later, computers had helped the agents gather information from the National Crime Information Center, local crime databases, local government databases, juvenile authorities, probation departments, and schools. I knew that as soon as the suspects were arrested, most of the agents would head back out to execute the search warrants. They’d talk to parents, relatives, friends, acquaintances, employers—anyone who could provide them with information. It almost made me uneasy to see firsthand how quickly—and how deeply—the government could delve into an individual’s life. What made me more uneasy was that all of this was occurring based on the word of a witness who might be crazy, lying, or just plain wrong.
It was almost eleven o’clock by the time I finished drafting the applications and affidavits required to secure the arrest and search warrants. I called Judge Rogers at home. He agreed to let me come over, and I found him sipping on a vodka martini in his den. The martini obviously wasn’t the judge’s first of the evening. It took me all of five minutes to convince him to sign the warrants. As soon as I left, I called Fraley.
Since I’d stayed in touch with Fraley by phone, I knew that as soon as I left his office that afternoon he’d ordered immediate, full-time surveillance on the homes—or at least the last known addresses—of our two suspects. None of the agents assigned to the surveillance had seen a thing until almost ten p.m., when a banged-up green Chevrolet Cavalier rolled into the driveway at the address the computers provided for Samuel Boyer. The license plate was registered to Boyer. The agents reported that there were two passengers in the car. It parked in the driveway, the engine remained running and the lights stayed on, and what appeared t
o be a male got out and went into the house. The agents couldn’t make a positive identification because the person was wearing heavy makeup. He was also wearing Goth clothing. The male stayed inside the house for only a couple of minutes and got back in the car. The agents followed the car to a cheap motel on the western outskirts of Johnson City, a place called the Lost Weekend. The suspects were still there.
After the judge signed my warrants, Fraley told me to meet him in the parking lot of a Burger King a couple of blocks from the motel. He flashed his headlights at me as I pulled into the lot, and I pulled in beside him about fifteen minutes before midnight. I locked up my truck and sat down in the passenger seat of his Crown Victoria, warrants in hand.
“It’s too early in the year for it to be this cold,” I said as I closed the door and shivered involuntarily.
“I already talked to the owner of the motel,” Fraley said, ignoring the comment. “Boyer checked in under his own name. Doesn’t seem to be trying to hide anything.”
Fraley spit loudly into a Styrofoam cup. A pungent wintergreen odor filled the car, and I noticed his bottom lip was sticking out as though he’d been punched in the mouth.
“That shit’ll rot your teeth,” I said.
“Been dipping off and on for forty years,” he said. “They ain’t rotten yet.”
“Did the owner make a positive ID?”
“He couldn’t tell from the photo I showed him. He says they always wear makeup.”
“Always?”
“The guy says they’ve rented a room a couple of times before in the past few months. Says they’re weird as hell, but they haven’t done any damage.”
“Do the dates coincide with the other murders?”
“Don’t know. He said they pay cash, and he doesn’t keep records of cash transactions. It’s not exactly the Ritz.”
“Where’s the owner now?” I was wondering whether he might be loyal enough to his cash-paying customers to alert them that the police were making inquiries. Fraley gave me a sideways glance.
“You really think I’m stupid enough to leave him alone?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry,” I said.
“One of my guys is in there keeping him company.”
“Are there still three of them?”
“Small party. Nobody new has showed up.”
“Any idea what’s going on in the room?”
“They pulled the blinds and the curtains as soon as they went in. We haven’t seen a thing.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“As soon as we get the go-ahead from the assistant district attorney—which would be you in this case—we’ll take them down hard and fast. They’re on the ground floor in a corner room, which makes things a little less complicated. Once we’re in position, the agent in the office will call the room as a diversion. As soon as we hear the phone ring, Norcross will hit the door. He’s our door-opening specialist. He’s so good with a sledgehammer we call him Thor.”
I’d been introduced to Norcross at the office earlier in the day. He was at least six-seven and looked like he’d been extracted from a slab of granite.
“Why didn’t you call Johnson City?” I said. “They’ve got a SWAT team.”
“I don’t want to take a chance on someone leaking this to the press. The last thing we need is a bunch of reporters in the parking lot.”
“Don’t you at least have one of those battering rams? Or better yet, why don’t you just get a key from the owner?”
“Because the door will probably be chained on the inside, genius. And trust me, Norcross and a sixteen-pound sledge is better than any battering ram ever devised.”
He turned towards me and held out his hand. “The warrants,” he said.
“And what am I supposed to do? Wait in the car?”
“Go home to your wife,” Fraley said.
“Are you serious? You want me to go home?”
“There’s nothing you can do here. We’ve got the raid planned out, and the plans don’t include you. Once we arrest them, we’ll be interrogating them all night. I don’t want you there.”
“Why?”
“You can’t participate in the interrogation because it could make you a witness, right?”
“Right, but—”
“And if you’re a witness, you can’t handle the case in court. It would be a conflict for you, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“So you don’t need to be there.”
“I could observe. Maybe help advise you with the questioning.”
“We don’t need your help. We know what we’re doing.”
The tone of his voice was firm, the look on his face determined.
“Why don’t you want me around?” I said. “Tell me the truth.”
“How do you think this is going to go down? Do you think we’re going to politely knock on the door and ask them to come along with us? Do you think we’re going to take them back to the office, give them some cake and coffee, and ask them nicely whether they slaughtered six innocent people?”
“So what you’re telling me is you’re going to brutalize them.”
“Brutalize might be a little strong, but we’re not going to treat them like houseguests. And I don’t want you second-guessing me. I don’t want to be hearing about their constitutional rights while I’m trying to get information out of them.”
“You need to be thinking about their constitutional rights or you could blow the whole—”
“Don’t lecture me, Dillard. I was interrogating murder suspects while you were still in fucking grammar school. I know what I’m doing, and the last thing I need is a goddamned lawyer looking over my shoulder while I’m doing it.”
He spit into the cup again and stuck his hand out. Reluctantly, I handed him the warrants.
“We’re on the same side, you know,” I said.
“When this goes to court, I promise I won’t try to tell you how to handle your case,” he said. “But until it gets there, it’s mine. We do it my way. Go home, counselor. Take care of your wife. Get some beauty sleep. You need it.”
“Just let me ask you one question,” I said. “Are you going to videotape the interrogations?”
“Let me ask you a question. Am I authorized to offer them anything?”
“You mean leniency? A break in sentencing in exchange for ratting out the others?” I thought about what Lee Mooney had said to me at the scene of the first murders. You have to promise me that when we find the sick bastards who did this, you’ll see to it that every one of them gets the electric chair. No screwups. No deals.
“No,” I said. “Don’t offer them anything.”
Fraley turned and looked out the window. He remained silent for a little while, then turned back towards me.
“Have a good night, counselor,” he said. “I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
Tuesday, October 7
“Everybody knows what to do, right?” Fraley said as he climbed from his vehicle, which was parked across a side street from the Lost Weekend Motel. Seven men stood in silence. They were dressed in khaki fatigue pants and black jackets that said “Police” across the front and back. All were armed and wore bulletproof vests beneath the jackets.
“Any questions?”
Nobody said a word.
“Good. Remember, if we’re right about these assholes, they’ve already killed six people. Shock and awe, no bullshit. I want all of them facedown on the ground in less than ten seconds. Keep a sharp eye out for weapons.”
The men surrounding Fraley were focused, their eyes wide in anticipation of the unknown danger behind the motel room door. Fraley thought about all the search warrants and felony arrest warrants he’d executed in the past and the inherent danger in breaking down a door without knowing what was on the other side. As the group of officers moved away from their cars and towards the motel, Fraley noticed that his skin was tingling. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time, and it reminded h
im of an irony he’d discovered years ago: it was in moments like this, when the prospect of sudden, violent death became real and immediate, that he truly appreciated being alive.
Fraley was in the back of the pack. Norcross led the way. The front was reserved for the young guys, guys with quicker reflexes, better cardiovascular systems, steadier hands. They jogged along the back of the shopping center, staying in the shadows, and across a side street that bordered the parking lot of the Lost Weekend. Once they crossed the street, they turned towards the back of the motel. Norcross picked up the pace as they moved the length of the building to the shadows of the far-west wall and made their way back around to the front. Everyone squatted there while Fraley dialed the agent who was waiting with the motel owner on the cell phone.
“One minute,” Fraley whispered as he closed his phone and stuck it in his pocket.
Norcross led the way around the corner to the room. Four agents passed him silently. Three squatted beneath the window on the east side of the door, flashlights in one hand, guns in the other. The fourth took up a position next to a car in the parking lot about twenty feet away and trained his weapon on the door. Fraley, along with one other agent, stopped on the west side, less than five feet away. Still another remained behind and pointed his gun at the door. Everyone froze for maybe twenty seconds—it seemed like twenty years—waiting for the phone inside the room to ring. Fraley looked at his watch. With his right hand, he started counting down… .
Five fingers … four … three … two … one …
Nothing. No sound from inside the room. Fraley muttering, “Ring, goddamn it!” under his breath. Norcross looking back over his shoulder at Fraley, eyebrows raised as if to say, What now?
The telephone inside the room rang. Fraley saw the massive head of the sledgehammer looming above the door. The phone rang again, and then—wham!—the door splintered as it exploded with the sound and force of a gunshot. Norcross tossing the sledge to the side. A man screaming. Lights flashing. A flurry of movement. Fraley feeling his heart pounding inside his chest. Male voices: “Police! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!” A strange scent of incense hanging in the air. Flashes of candlelight. “Give me your hands! Give me your fucking hands! If you move I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” Bright light as someone flipped a switch.
