by Mark Schorr
“Assuming you’re telling the truth and have significantly reduced crime, do you credit it to mandatory sentencing, a larger police force, or capital punishment?”
“It’s our community-oriented policing,” the mayor said, knowing to not get trapped in Palomo’s forced-choice frame. “Our officers don’t just ride around in cars, they’re out interacting every day, getting to know the neighborhood residents as people."
“But lots of communities have community-oriented policing.”
“Well, Juan, maybe we do it better than the others.”
“You’re saying other police departments and cities are run badly?” Palomo loved nothing more than twisting words and getting guests to overreact.
“Every police department and every city does the best it can. We’ve put together a phenomenal team, and of course, the citizens are part of that team. Do you remember that incident last month where the burglar was caught thanks to several concerned citizens calling 911? I was never more proud of our city.”
Brian Hanson switched the radio to the oldies station. He listened to Palomo on talk radio most mornings, but hearing the mayor pontificate about the low crime rate was annoying. What about Tammy LaFleur? Did you count her death in your homicides? Were there other murders conveniently classified as suicides or natural causes?
Hanson had voted against Robinson. His platform was too pro corporation, paraphrasing Calvin Coolidge with “the business of our city is business.” Robinson had outspent his opponent by three to one, and won by a 75-25 percent majority. Once in power, he implemented aggressive marketing to large corporations, tax incentives for expansion, sweetheart zoning deals. Hanson had to admit there had been great successes—an expanded airport, increased tax base, booming property values, big plans for the inner east side renovation. All things that Jeanie was happy to gloat about. She had been a Robinson fan from his first speech.
Robinson’s message had the hidden undercurrent that if you weren’t doing well, it was your fault. Hanson had heard him speak about the work ethic, America as a land of opportunity, his own immigrant parents’ story. His family had come out during the 1849 gold rush, and made their fortune by buying goods cheap in town, taking them out to the camps by buggy, and charging ten times what they paid. There was no concern for the underprivileged whom the government should be helping.
Hanson parked and headed into the office though the clinic wouldn’t open for another half hour. He liked the morning time, the quiet halls, the chance to get things done without interruption. It was never that way at the end of the day, even after hours. There were leftover crises, emergency phone calls, something to be cleaned up. The morning was fresh. If something had waited overnight, there was an excellent chance it could wait another day. And most clients didn’t awake before 10 a.m., so there was little going on.
Betty Pearlman was at the front desk, studying the schedule for the day. “Brian, how are you?”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“You look less frazzled,” she said. “I saw you’ve taken time off. I hope you’ve been having fun.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it fun, but it was distracting.”
She waited for more information, but he said, “I better get to my desk. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on.” Betty, like Jeanie, would never understand what he was doing. She’d probably tell him that if he violated his discipline’s ethical code or brought embarrassment to the agency by getting swept up in a vice raid, he could lose his job. Most likely she would respond like a big sister, try to convince him his actions were a death wish and talking to a therapist would help. Therapy had been his religion for so many years. Now he had a feeling that talk slowed events down, and he needed action. He wasn’t sure what the action should be, but the idea of masticating it in therapy was revolting.
At his desk, he grabbed the phone book and looked up the FBI office. It took him close to ten minutes to progress through the telephone screening process. He expected to get her voice mail and was surprised when there was a final click and he heard, “Special Agent Parker. Can I help you?”
“Uh, I’m Brian Hanson. Your name was given to me by your uncle Louis.”
“He told me you would call,” she said without warmth. “I can meet you at four thirty today. But I can’t make any promises.”
“I’ll be there.”
Louise Parker hung up the phone, instantly regretting that she had agreed to the meeting. Uncle Louis, her namesake and a primary influence on her young life, had called the day before saying he wanted her to talk with his counselor about a possible serial killer.
She thought back on Uncle Louis, how he’d had the best presents for her, the funniest stories, the loving twinkle in his eye as he joked with her. She had been a sickly child, academically gifted, and socially awkward. Uncle Louis was the only one she remembered loving her as a gawky girl, as an insecure teen, and then as a confident young woman. Taking her to Oaks Bottom Amusement Park, to the zoo, to Blazer games and fun places her parents never seemed to have time to visit.
She also remembered his hushed conversations, sometimes shouting matches, with her father. And visiting Louis in prison. It was ironic that he had encouraged her to go into law enforcement. He had bought her the Junior G-Men kit back when it was only G-men. Now, close to one-fifth of the twelve thousand agents were women.
She had been drawn to the Bureau because of expected professionalism. Something she had largely found, but not without lots of good old boy sexism. She had come in in 1993, when the FBI had been hit by lawsuits alleging sexist practices. She had been working in a tedious office job for a large paper mill. The Bureau recruiter had liked that she had a prelaw bachelor’s degree, excellent computer skills, and two X chromosomes.
She had survived the six-month background check and the seventeen weeks at Quantico. Some of the instructors, particularly in physical training, seemed to delight in demeaning female cadets. Half of the women had dropped out. With each extra push-up or lap around the track, Louise had become more determined. She graduated the top woman in her class, with only two men ahead of her.
She contended with mind-numbing federal paperwork, fifty-hour minimum work weeks, colleagues who thought it the height of humor to leave Female Body Inspector T-shirts anonymously on her desk, and occasional bosses who were so clueless they made Dilbert’s boss seem like a paragon of leadership. She maintained an above average arrest record, had earned three commendations, and could quote from the Manual of Investigative and Operational Guidelines by heart. Every time she passed by the locked, glass-fronted case with confiscated weapons, or the display honoring the nearly three dozen FBI agents who had died in the line of duty since 1925, she felt a twinge of pride.
Though not as exciting as her previous assignments, working in Portland had been wonderful. The place where she was raised. Closer to her uncle, whom she had seen age more rapidly in recent years. She had been one of the special agents—all FBI agents were special, they joked-—who had broken up a multistate fencing ring. She liked the street crimes, the gritty interviews, knocking on doors, serving warrants. She knew some colleagues whispered she had Jane Wayne syndrome, but they were the same ones who started rumors that any woman who rebuffed their advances was a lesbian.
She still had an interest in serial killings and sexual assaults, and kept her eyes on data and trends, in addition to her regular assignments. She wished she was back in behavioral sciences, even though the intense work had nearly burned her out. Pursuing white-collar criminals just wasn’t as exciting.
She usually was the first one in and among the last to leave, and still never completed all she wanted. Which was why she was eager to have her meeting with Brian Hanson be as brief as possible. She had agreed to see him purely as a courtesy to her uncle, and because there was something peculiar happening in the city. Uncle Louis kept trying to get her interested, but she really didn’t have time to investigate an amorphous feeling. She focused on the details of es
tablishing probable cause as she prepared a search warrant for a secondhand dealer on Southeast Eighty-Second Avenue.
Hanson had trouble concentrating, but having been a counselor for so long, he was able to coast with a certain amount of “Tell me more” and “That sounds like it was difficult for you?” Pearlman, however, was able to detect a difference and caught him in the hallway between sessions.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” he responded, feeling like he’d been caught in a lie.
“I don’t know, but you seem different.”
“I need to leave a bit early today. I’ve got an FBI agent who is interested in talking to me about Tammy LaFleur.”
Pearlman sighed. “If that’s what you need to do, go ahead, take some time.”
“Thanks.”
She sighed again and moved off.
He met with the girl who had cut herself. She showed him a report card that included two As, a B, and a couple of Cs. “But those teachers hate me,” she explained. The possibility for rapid change was one of the things he enjoyed about working with younger clients. By the time they were in their twenties, destructive patterns were so entrenched, and the environment they were in was so reinforcing of bad choices, that it could take years to see a real difference.
He finished with his last client at a little before 4 p.m. The man was a late-stage alcoholic who looked seventy, but was only fifty. He appeared to have early-stage Alzheimer’s though Hanson suspected it was Korsakoff’s syndrome. He had scheduled the man three times for evaluations by the psychiatrist. Each time, the client had forgotten the appointment, despite reminder calls that morning or the evening before. He missed about half of his appointments with Hanson.
But today he had come in with a rambling update on his life. His conversation reeked of confabulation, filled-in details that weren’t quite right. But Hanson had continued to build rapport, trying to get him in for the med evaluation, and not confronting any of the questionable facts. The session had gone well, and another medical appointment had been set.
Hanson decided to walk to Louise Parker’s office. His route traversed most of downtown, from the Old Town district where his agency was housed, past the half dozen “skyscrapers,” none taller than thirty-five stories, to the civic center that was home to city hall, the administrative building, the courthouse, police headquarters, the jail, and the federal building.
It was typical autumn in Portland, where the joke was if you didn’t like the weather, just wait fifteen minutes and it would be different. Frozen coating on cars overnight, then a morning fog. The streets glossy from an earlier rain. A chill wind blew leaves around the street. The bright sun had begun to fade and the chill of the night was gaining strength.
Portland FBI headquarters was located close to the edge of downtown, in a bland white eleven-story building that also held medical, financial, and state government offices. Hanson rode up to the fourth-floor area, where a receptionist eyeballed him through the thick glass window. He noticed that someone had chipped a couple of letters off the raised sign, making it the Feral Bureau of Investigation. A paper sheet Scotch-taped to the window warned that it was a federal crime to take notes or pictures in the area.
He was buzzed in through the eight-foot-high doors into the windowless waiting area, still separated from the receptionist by bulletproof glass. Sitting in the barely comfortable chair, he noted the ten most wanted, pictures of the FBI director and the president, a large FBI seal. Nothing to warrant a House & Garden spread.
Parker came through the interior buzz-in door with a stiff smile on her face. She wore a navy blue tailored blazer, and Hanson couldn’t tell if she had a weapon. He searched her features, looking for similarities with her uncle. She had dark blond hair pulled back, strong cheekbones, a pale complexion, and a firm handshake. Parker was a few pounds over fashionable weight, but carried it well. The FBI agent led him into a small, also windowless room with a table, two chairs, and no other furnishings. The finest in interrogation decor.
Louise studied him with cool blue eyes. “How is Uncle Louie?”
“Good.”
“Let me guess—that’s all you’re going to say due to confidentiality?”
He smiled. “I’m glad you understand.”
“I’ve dealt with counselors before.”
“I’ve been here before,” Hanson responded.
“Really?” An eyebrow went up at his confession.
“Yes. Responded to a call of an individual insisting that the federal government was using interdimensional probes to disrupt his sleep.”
She almost smiled. “We get a lot of mental patients.”
“Many clients struggle with paranoid delusions,” Hanson said. “The supervisor handled it well. We were able to convince the individual to leave without an arrest.”
“Nice to hear,” she said, taking out a pen and small pad. “Let’s discuss your concerns.”
“Tammy Grundig, aka Tammy LaFleur, was found dead a week ago. Police call it a suicide. Based on my experience and consistent with the research, I believe she was murdered.”
Parker’s demeanor changed. He had cleared a hurdle with his professional speech, and she was less dismissive. “Specifically?”
“She was shot in the face. Suicides rarely do that, especially women. Her roommate and a past boyfriend both made allegations of a serial killer.”
“What do the local police say?”
“Suicide. And they were quick to close the case. The Grundig family is police royalty in this region.”
“I thought the name was familiar,” she said, writing quickly on the paper. “I believe one of our crime scene techs is a Grundig. I worked once on a case with a Lieutenant Grundig. And of course the former deputy chief.”
He nodded.
“Was there evidence that Tammy had been sexually abused?”
“No.”
“Signs of forced entry to her premises?”
“No.”
“And the gun?”
“A .357 Magnum revolver. It had been stolen in town about six months earlier and might have been hers.” He told her everything he knew about the death without divulging any history gathered during therapy sessions.
Louise sighed. “Mr. Hanson, do you realize how speculative what you’re telling me is?”
“Maybe if you would make a few calls …”
“There’s not enough. As a courtesy to Uncle Louie, I’ll run the info through HITS and ViCAP.” She saw his confused expression. “Homicide Investigation Tracking System and Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. They’re a regional and a national database respectively that track murders and sexual assaults.”
“Thanks,” he said, waiting, then realizing she expected him to leave. He was about to get up when she glanced at her watch and said, “I’ll do it now.”
For a few minutes, she typed at her computer, scrolling through different fields. Her squint as she reviewed the words on the screen reminded him of Louis’s expressions when he concentrated.
She looked up suddenly, and he turned away, embarrassed. “No hits are consistent with a serial-killer pattern. Frankly, the way her death runs counter to your experience with suicides, the evidence pattern runs counter to my experience with serial killers.”
“You don’t think it is murder?”
“I didn’t say that, just that I doubt it is a serial killer.”
“Why?”
“There’s usually a ritualistic component to serial killings. Or they fit into a pattern. Or evidence of souvenir taking.”
“What do you think it is?”
She rubbed the bridge of her nose, pondering how much to say. He knew when to be quiet.
“Did Louie talk much about me?”
“I can’t go into it. Sorry.”
Her face flushed and she leaned forward. “You want me to spill confidential material to you, but you won’t even tell me a thing about what he said?”
Han
son hesitated, then rose. “Thanks for your time.”
“Please sit down. You passed.”
“What?”
“If you had broken your confidentiality at a little bluster, I’d know you couldn’t be trusted. You come with high praise from Louie and that counts a lot. Plus you seem to know how to keep your mouth shut.”
Hanson settled down into the seat, not sure whether he felt pleased that he had passed or annoyed that he had been tested.
“When I was about eight, he would tell me stories about being a private investigator. He made it sound exciting.” A slow blush rouged her cheeks. “Of course that was before he wound up in prison.” She was all business again. “I’m not exactly sure what is going on in this town. Murder is a local-jurisdiction matter unless it is an act that is part of a RICO conspiracy. You know what RICO is?”
“Organized crime?”
“Right. Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations. Originally used to target the Mafia, but over the years used for everything from corrupt cops and politicians to Colombian drug cartels.”
“What’s the conspiracy?”
“I don’t know. There are puzzling patterns of deaths and disappearances in Portland in the past few years. Things I hear about only coincidentally. Like Ms. LaFleur/Grundig. Or tips from Uncle Louie. Not enough to build a case.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
She shook her head, a little too quickly. He didn’t believe her.
“If anything else occurs to you, please feel free to call,” she said while rising and escorting him to the door.
A light drizzle created a cool mist in the air outside. Had he been given a polite brush-off or was Louise Parker going to follow up? He walked back across downtown, listening to the hiss of traffic on rainy streets, and thinking about Louise Parker.
