Murder at Willow Slough (27 page)

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Sister

Jamie screamed, “What do you mean it’s not enough?”

“If you’re asking,” said chief assistant prosecutor Rob Willingham, “is it enough to convict for phone harassment, yes. We could get stalking. Terroristic threats, a felony at least. Accessory, yes. But for murder, it’s way too chancy.”

“What more do you need? I can identify his voice; you can make voice prints. You’ve got him on tape describing the place, the time of year, references to the serial string, the Schmidgall connection. He admits he dumped Ferguson off at the Slough. That isn’t a confession of murder? Now you’re telling me you want video of him doing it? Why not wait for the goddamn Broadway musical?”

“The reference to Ferguson is not enough. I want enough evidence to get a conviction for murder, kid, not phone harassment or accessory after the fact. We don’t want another Crum here, walking away scot-free.”

“You want a goddamn video for cases Marion County has never cared a fuck about.”

“Jamie, settle down. Try to listen,” Kent urged. Jamie glared at him, felt a little betrayed.“No one wants to lock this guy up more than we do.

But what if he’s not the only one? What if he’s like Schmidgall, and the vet is in on it, or Lash, or who knows how many? Picking up Ford, assuming we get a conviction, doesn’t lead us to the rest of them. If we’re really going to stop it, we need them all.”

“Why don’t you pick him up, play him the tape and manipulate the truth out of him? Isn’t that what you guys are so good at?”

“What if he doesn’t break?” Major Slaughter asked.

Jamie snapped, “Major, you won’t know if you don’t try.”

“So we’re supposed to Rodney King this dude, is that it?” the prosecutor asked. “Beat the truth out of him? Whatever it takes?”

“Get a killer off the streets and use psychology, not beat his head in,” Jamie slammed back. “Don’t insult my Commander that way. This is twice now you’ve used all-or-nothing thinking.”

Slaughter noted, “He’s right, Rob. Anything short of a murder conviction, you had Ford walking away scot-free.”

Kent said, “We all need to calm down and look at this thing rationally. Okay, Mr. Prosecutor?”

Jamie said, “Commander, based on your experience and knowledge of the suspect’s emotional state, what interviewing technique would you choose with him? Would you be empathic or confrontational?”

“Empathic. Get him to open up, tell me why he hurts.”

“Major, Mr. Prosecutor, this trooper excels at being empathic. Ford won’t stand a chance. The face will soften him up, and the genuine kindness will tip him over.”

Slaughter said, “That’s a powerful point.”

“Interview him. Maybe he’ll confess to everything in five minutes. Dahmer did. All they had to do was ask him. This guy’s number two obsession is the day he gets caught. He knows he’s out of control. He can’t wait till he sees your lights. The suspense is killing him. Why else is he calling me all the time?”

“Dahmer acted alone,” Willingham said. “Even if we did get Ford to confess, it doesn’t guarantee we get the accomplices. Confessions are worth diddly.”

“That’s your problem, you want guarantees,” Jamie sneered. “Would you need guarantees if the victim was your sister?”

The prosecutor’s face turned red. Jamie didn’t back down, but he did finally allow a standoff. “Major, tell me this is not because Glenn Ferguson was Gay.”

“It’s not about that, Mr. Foster.”

The prosecutor yelled, “No, we just want a jury to convict Ford of something besides a goddamn traffic ticket! Jesus, George, your CI’s a fucking prima donna.”

“No, asshole. I’m a reporter,” Jamie spat. “Who’s actually managed to get some evidence on this creep, unlike anyone else in this room.”

Slaughter closed his eyes, sighed. Kent shook his head. Jamie stared into space. “I’m sorry, Commander. You got the Walkers. And the teenage girl. I spoke out of turn.”

“Forget it, man. We both got the Walkers. You did, for that matter.”

“So these are my choices, Mr. Prosecutor: let myself be stalked so you can get your guarantee; or you do nothing?”

“Jamie, now you see what police work is really like,” Kent urged. “We have to face these questions all the time.”

“Don’t turn on me, partner,” Jamie warned. “You won’t like the consequences, partner.”

Slaughter intoned in his deep, controlling, calming voice, “You’re upset, Mr. Foster. It’s understandable. All of us are.”

“Yeah, right. This prosecutor isn’t the one who got the call. Ford knew about the music at my mother’s funeral! That wasn’t in the paper. He had to be there to know.”

Slaughter shoved back his chair and jumped up. “It’s not a crime to attend a funeral! Think, Mr. Foster. We are all upset. We just handle it differently. I’m sure you do not want to impugn these officers’ motives. You’re not the only caring person in this room.”

Jamie was quiet for a time. He looked at Slaughter. “I respectfully disagree,” he said softly. “It’s very much a crime for a murderer to attend my mother’s funeral.”

“Jamie, I didn’t mean to undermine the dignity of your mother or the solemnity of her service.”

“And I don’t mean to impugn anyone’s motives. But if your department had a better record of working these cases for the last decade, the trust issue would never come up. If I’m out of line, I apologize. Otherwise it’s my job to push you to make an arrest.”

“The question is, what’s our best hope of success? Isn’t that so, Mr. Foster?”

“I want a cigarette,” Jamie scowled.

Willingham tossed a pack across the table. Jamie jerked his jaw up an inch in acknowledgment, took out a smoke and lit up. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, looked out the window at nothing.

Somehow I’ve become the key to this whole case.

Wished he’d brought menthols. This cigarette is for shit.

Six months after Rick. My mom not even dead two weeks. And now I’m supposed to give it up for the Straight man’s law, which says I’m a felon in 23 states, a non-person in all but nine. Welcome to Amerika, boy.

He faced the prosecutor, put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Assuming you’re right, which I do not assume: Is there no value in getting him off the streets for six months or a year? If you can get terroristic threats, that’s a longer jail term. No one dies during that time. That counts for something important. And you start to tighten the noose for when he gets out. Assuming that you can’t nail him for life, which I think you can.”

“Sure,” Willingham conceded. “We can take him out for a short period at minimum. Maybe more. The felony’s six years. Doesn’t mean a judge will keep him that long.”

“If that’s how you want to play it, Jamie, that’s fine,” Kent said. “I thought you wanted to catch a killer.”

Jamie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I thought I just did,” he said, exasperated and furious. “Why are you turning on me, partner? Surely you’re not as bad as the rest of them.”

Kent was torn, didn’t know what to say. Doe-eyes finally got to Jamie. “I’m sorry, Kent. The last thing I want is to impugn your motives. You’ve been great, man. I’m not being objective, Major. Mr. Willingham, I’m sorry, I guess I don’t understand the law.”

“Jamie, forget it,” Kent scowled.

“The way to do it,” Willingham said, “is to wire the CI.”

“No way,” Kent insisted, “I won’t allow it. He’s in too much danger as it is. Let me try talking to Ford. We can videotape the whole thing and prove any confession wasn’t coerced.”

Willingham said, “And if that doesn’t work, we’re stuck charging a killer as a mere accessory.”

Slaughter sighed at the dilemma. “It does come down to what you want, Mr. Foster. What your goal is. You are the one being stalked. I don’t doubt Sgt. Kessler’s interviewing powers; but it’s a gamble. Absent a confession, I think the prosecutor is right if we go for murder. Meanwhile this is an extremely valuable tape.”

“How nice of you to acknowledge that,” Jamie muttered. “Pardon my sarcasm, I know I’m overinvolved, but God. Maybe you can get Tommy Tune to do your choreography.”

Slaughter chuckled, but he wouldn’t be diverted. “It is a great piece of evidence. It could be the centerpiece when we nail the guy, if we do. But it’s not a stand-alone. It’s a piece of evidence, Mr. Foster. And we may be up against a very powerful force here. It’s probably not just one guy. You know that.” Slaughter looked away. “I’m sorry. But he doesn’t give any information that only the killer would know; and that’s what constitutes proof. There’s nothing to keep him from claiming he only transported the body. What happens when we haul his ass into court against millionaire lawyers and a possible organization behind him? Can we make it stick? If this were any other case, maybe we could. Isn’t that right, Rob?”

“Sure, if this were an isolated case. You voice-print the tape, confront him and say, ‘They’re your own words.’ It’s a great tape and you’ve done a brilliant job, Mr. Foster. I give you that willingly. You alone got this evidence. But this is not your normal killer.”

“The question is the others, Jamie,” Kent said. “We take down Ford, even put him on Death Row, that doesn’t guarantee your people stay alive. It just gives you the Schmidgall result all over again; one in jail and two or three others still on the loose. What if there really is an organization? They’ll just find themselves another Ford.”

Jamie hadn’t thought of that. But he knew the Schmidgall cases better than anyone. “Consider the alternative on Schmidgall. Maybe it’s for the wrong crime, but Chicago gets Schmidgall, subtract 21 unsolved cases and one killer. Criticize Chicago and Kickapoo County all you want for not getting Crum; I’ve made a career out of doing that. But with Schmidgall in prison, they can still close those cases, and he does-n’t kill anyone else. For which even I have to give Chicago credit.

“Rob admits you can get Ford for a felony in the Ferguson case; what about Gary Tompkins, Kent? Doesn’t Gary have a right to get on with his life after his lover was murdered? I would think that would be the first consideration. But no, you guys want guarantees, you want to bust the whole Mafia in one fell swoop. I know you’re the studs of the world, but even Eliott Ness broke a complex case into pieces.”

Slaughter thought. “Mr. Foster, that’s helpful. Gentlemen, we cannot make this decision at this level of authority. Let us meet as soon as possible with the top brass, play them the tape and go from there. Mr. Foster, we’ll need you to be present for that meeting.”

“If I might be wired up, you better believe I’ll be there. I have two side issues as well. One, what if this is a red herring? What if we focus on the bars in Indianapolis, and meanwhile he’s in Chicago or Cincinnati or Fort Wayne? If I were he, I sure as hell wouldn’t run the risk of finding any more victims in Indy.”

Kent said stonily, “If we take his threat at face value, he doesn’t want just any victim anymore. He wants you, Jamie. He’s already got your bridge picked out.” Inside Kent recoiled, but he was a cop. “He figures that if he takes you out he’s home free.”

“Till you came along, he would be. Point two: do we have anyone watching this guy? I know events are moving fast, but we don’t want to be sitting around a table without someone watching his every move.”

“When we find out where he’s staying, we’ll surveill him 24 hours a day,” Slaughter said. “The phone company’s getting us the number and location right now.”

“If it’s his home number.”

“True.”

“That’s a pretty big if, major.”

“True. But we’ll know in ten minutes. Sergeant, do we have the original recording from the answering machine in West Lafayette?”

“Yes, sir. Jamie gave us permission. The machine records on a regular cassette, not a computer chip, so all we did was remove the evidentiary tape and replace it. If the suspect calls again, he’ll get the same outgoing message, like nothing happened.”

“Excellent.”

Jamie agonized in silence. He had to work to keep from imploding. “Damn,” he finally said. He stubbed out the lousy cigarette. He was so weary.

Tiredness he could shake off. Fury at the Strangler he could not.

He straightened his back and said, “If the brass agree that this is their best recommendation, then I will consider doing it. And you people…” he looked at the prosecutor, then at George, and finally at Kent, “you better act like Glenn Archer Ferguson is your brother or sister.”

Willingham nodded, “Fine.” He reached into his wallet, pulled something out, tossed it to Jamie. “Keep it for the duration.”

Jamie gazed at a photo of a young, pretty woman. “What’s her name?” “Cassie Willingham. She’s my sister.” Jamie put the photo in his shirt pocket, nodded pure respect. “I don’t

mean to be a prima donna, Rob.” “You’re not, I spoke out of turn too. I swear I’ll treat Mr. Ferguson

like my brother.” “That’s all I need.” Slaughter grimaced, “This meeting is over.” Kent stood, trying to look more macho than he felt. When the others

left, he grabbed and hugged the little guy. “I’m sorry.” Jamie broke the hold in 1.2 seconds and strode out of the room.