Good Day to Die (26 page)

“Vanessa,” she said, “it’s been too long.”

The next several minutes were filled with hugs and coos and murmured clichés. Then Ms. Brock turned to me.

“You must be Roland Means.” Her voice was honey smooth, but her eyes tore into me like a pair of sharpened forceps.

“There’s a rumor, but I’m not admitting anything.” My smile was easy enough, the way for it having been prepared by Captain Bouton’s solicitude.

“Veee haf vays,” Brock said in a mock-German accent, “uff making you talk.”

“Promises, promises—that’s all I ever get.”

The amenities observed, Brock took her place in a swivel chair behind her desk and folded her pudgy hands. “Now, I believe the subject is King Thong.”

“Right,” Bouton said eagerly, “Kennedy …”

Brock silenced her with a casual wave. “Before you start, Vanessa, I want to remind you that whatever I say off the top of my head should be taken for exactly what it is—casual conversation.
Not
analysis.”

Bouton looked crestfallen. “You
have
studied the Thong killings, Miriam. It’s not like you’re unfamiliar with the case.”

“That’s true, Vanessa, and I came to the conclusion, as did you, that the killings were not sexually motivated. Now, sexually motivated homicide is my
only
area of expertise. The rest is pure speculation.”

“Ms. Brock,” I said, “are you telling me you haven’t thought about this case? That you don’t have any theories?”

She turned to me with a happy grin. “I won’t say that I’m not opinionated. That I don’t have theories about
everything,
up to and including dam construction in the Pacific Northwest. But that doesn’t make what I say valid.”

“Would it make you feel better,” I asked, “if we promise not to use your theories to get an arrest warrant for Kennedy?”

“That’s just the attitude I was hoping for,” she responded, leaning back in her chair. “Now, Vanessa, hit me with the goodies.”

Bouton related our trip to Owl Creek in detail, referring to her notes as she went along. When she finished, she put her notebook into her purse and looked up at Miriam Brock. “Robert Kennedy’s being a deputy sheriff puts me in a ticklish position, Miriam. I mean, how in hell can I conduct a nice, quiet preliminary investigation? How can I ask for his duty records, records that might provide him with an alibi, without his finding out about it? I’m not saying that I won’t do it, but I’d like to have a little more input.
Before
I turn up the heat.”

Curious, how she kept saying “I” instead of “we.” Curious, but not altogether surprising.

Miriam Brock swiveled sideways in her chair, looking at us over her shoulder. “Very interesting,” she began,
“very
interesting.” She swiveled back, leaned forward, and placed her refolded hands on the desk. “When did we last speak about this case?”

“Three months ago? Four? Five? I’d have to consult my notes to be sure.”

“Forget the notes.” Brock’s smile was that of an indulgent parent. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I’ve been thinking about this case ever since, trying to make some sense of it. I never bought the FBI’s assessment of the murders. There were too many details at odds with my own personal research. The disparate types, the identical patterns of mutilation. …We’ve been through this in detail. The simple fact is that those homicides literally haunted me. Something (perhaps the ghost of Dr. Freud, if I may be permitted to stretch the metaphor) kept telling me that
my
conclusions simply didn’t fit the pattern any more than the FBI’s.

“I’d been theorizing an individual who’d never killed before, an individual, motivated by greed or jealousy, who’d suddenly stepped out of his safe skin to commit seven grisly homicides. This individual (the one in my neat little theory) could not have been a ‘hit man’ or a professional criminal of any kind. A professional would have devised a much simpler plan. Nor could this individual have been acting on impulse, because the crime scenes clearly indicated an organized type who’d taken great care to plan and execute his crimes.”

She took a deep breath and lit a cigarette. “See this,” she said, waving the cigarette before taking a deep drag. “Cigarettes kill thousands of times more often than serial killers, but nobody quakes in fear at the image of a pack of Marlboros running amok. According to the FBI there are fewer than a hundred serial killers at large at any given time, yet serial killers are the subject of book after book after book. Misplaced paranoia is what it’s all about.

“Anyway, back to King Thong. I’ve come to the conclusion that the perpetrator of the King Thong homicides is a heterosexual who killed
women
before the King Thong homicides began, and who continues to kill women now that they’re over. That would account for a number of the anomalies in this case—no indication of sexual assault, no pattern of escalating violence, the victims left where they were sure to be found. Thong, if my present theory holds up, gained little satisfaction from murdering those seven men. His motive was not sexual, but his evident skill was developed during the commission of prior, sexually motivated homicides. Robert Kennedy, as you’ve presented him to me, is a man driven by greed and, perhaps, anger. His background, as outlined by Mr. Shannon, seems consistent with that of the typical serial killer, but what you’ve presented to me is only an outline. A
vague
outline. Plus, you must also remember that many, many individuals endure horrific childhood abuse without ever committing a crime. If I were you, I wouldn’t draw any conclusions about Mr. Kennedy, but I would certainly take the next step. Whatever that may be.”

The silence following Brock’s lecture was so profound, I felt an urge to break it by applauding, an urge I resisted mightily.

“It fits.” Bouton finally broke the spell. “Not Kennedy. I’m not thinking about Kennedy. I’m thinking about Thong. The FBI profiling team was sure that Thong was a serial killer, and they were right. I was sure that Thong was not sexually motivated, and I was right, too. What a clever bastard he was.
Is.
Let me not forget that. Let me
never
forget that. Clever and vicious.”

“May I ask a question?” I said, interrupting the accolades.

“Sure.” Brock turned to look at me.

“The victims were all shot in the head. In almost exactly the same spot.”

“Yes, I know that. I’ve reviewed the autopsies.”

“How’d he do it? How’d he get all seven into the right position and keep them there? Why didn’t one or two of them fight back? Or at least turn around?”

“That’s a cop question,” Bouton interrupted.

“Not so, Vanessa.” Brock silenced her student with a wave. “It’s a question that caught my attention as well. A very intriguing question. Initially, I understood it as an indicator of just how premeditated these crimes were. How cold-blooded.
Your
question only occurred to me later, but in the absence of any forensic evidence, hair samples, tissue samples, fibers, et cetera, I’m not willing to draw any definite conclusions. I assume you’ve come up with theories of your own, Detective.”

“Not one that I’m happy with.”

“Have you considered the possibility that King Thong might be two people? There are many examples of serial killers acting in consort.”

“I have. But I can’t see the victims getting into a vehicle with two men. Not once the killings became public.”

“Why does it have to be two
men?
Maybe it was a man and a woman.”

“Say that again?”

“Do you know the history of Gerald and Charlene Gallego?” She smiled and shook her head. “No, obviously not. Well, Gerald Gallego was a lifelong criminal, always in and out of trouble, who’d survived an incredibly brutal childhood, while Charlene Williams was a rather prim would-be violinist from a ‘good’ family. They met, fell in love, and married.

“Things went reasonably well (though Gerald continued his criminal activities and abused Charlene from time to time) until one day Gerald came home to find Charlene in bed with another woman. This undercut his own virility, making it impossible for him to perform. Charlene, driven, presumably, by guilt, suggested they spice up their love lives by kidnapping sex slaves. Gerald thought that a great idea, as long as they killed the sex slaves when they were finished with them. And that’s just the way it went for the next seven years. Charlene lured the women into their van, whereupon Gerald controlled them with words or violence while Charlene drove to a remote spot. The women were sexually assaulted for hours, then beaten to death and left to rot.

“The initial investigation was hampered, as many of these investigations are, by two factors: The bodies, when found, were badly decomposed, and the killings took place in multiple jurisdictions. Gerald and Charlene weren’t caught until one of their victims escaped. Not surprisingly, Charlene testified against Gerald in return for a life sentence with the possibility of parole after nineteen years. She claimed that Gerald forced her to help capture the victims, that she did not participate in the sexual assaults or in the actual killing. Forensic evidence, however, indicates otherwise. Gerald Gallego, I should add, was sentenced to death.”

Y
OU CAN RUN, BUT
you can’t hide.

Maybe the old cliché ought to read, “You can hide, but sooner or later the mosquitoes will drive you into the open.” It had taken a long, long time; I’d managed to stretch it for all it was worth. But there were no forests in Miriam Brock’s office. No dark groves. Something inside me downshifted, popped the clutch, and put the pedal to the metal. The sensation wouldn’t have been all that terrible, if I’d known whose hands were on the steering wheel.

“Congratulations, Captain,” I said, turning to Bouton, “looks like you’ve got yourself a suspect. One that actually fits.”

She looked surprised, then pleased. “Did I miss something? You seemed pretty skeptical a few minutes ago.”

“Ignorance is what it was. A man and a woman operating together? Chalk it up to an overdeveloped macho attitude if you want, but the idea never occurred to me.”

“Actually,” Bouton nodded happily, “it never occurred to me, either. I’m still not sure I believe it, Charlene Gallego notwithstanding. There may be other factors. …”

“Other factors don’t mean squat to cops,” I interrupted. “Look, when I was on the streets I had maybe a dozen male prostitutes snitching for me. Not all at one time, but over a period of years. I got to know a few of them pretty well. Understand, these were mostly kids, small-town boys from broken homes, and I played the father figure for all it was worth. ‘Tell me everything, son. Listening’s what I’m here for.’ Now, understand something else, most of these kids were scared shitless. Not only were they on unfamiliar turf, but the johns kept doing horrible things to them, not to mention the pimps and the rest of the street sharks. So what’s the chances that with all the publicity surrounding the murders, these kids would get in a car with
two
men? Like I told you before, the question of how the victims were controlled jumped out at me the first time I looked at the autopsy photos. I’ve run it through my head with every variation I could dream up and the only thing that works is two perpetrators, one to distract and one to kill. But two perps, two males, anyway, would have made the victims even more skittish. Somewhere along the line, somebody would have fought back. A man and a woman, on the other hand …”

“Detective?” Brock’s voice was almost amused. “Does that happen?”

“Does what happen?” As far as I was concerned, Brock was yesterday’s news.

“A couple hiring a male prostitute?”

“Professor, in New York everything happens. In New York, men in chauffeur-driven limos pay to give head to disease-ridden, middle-aged, South Bronx prostitutes. Get yourself a copy of the
Village Voice
and look in the personals. If there isn’t an ad there from a ‘bi white male’ or a ‘bi black male’ or a ‘bi couple’ looking to party with a married couple, I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Does it happen on the street, Means?” Bouton asked. “Bisexual encounters?”

I took a deep breath. Having smelled blood in the water, I was having a very difficult time sitting in that office. “Not often, Captain, and not to everybody, but when it did happen, the kids talked about it for weeks afterwards. I mean, as far as I could make out, most of those kids believed they were straight. They were out there trying to survive, and peddling their butts was the only way they could see to do it. What they’d tell me was, ‘I don’t do nothin’. I let ’em go down on me, but I don’t do nothin’ back.’ I knew it was mostly bullshit—and there were exceptions, like John-John Kennedy—but it was just the kind of bullshit that’d get a streetwise whore to jump into a van with a man and a woman. And here’s something else to consider—according to forensics, Thong probably used low-velocity, .22-caliber hollow points to kill his victims. A big gun, a .45 or a 9mm, would have been a lot more efficient, especially if there’d been a struggle somewhere along the way. Now, the conclusion that I (and everybody else) reached was that our killer used a small gun simply because small guns are quieter, but there’s a second possibility. Maybe he needed to make sure the bullet he fired into the back of his victim’s head didn’t go right through his victim’s head and kill his wife. Who just happened to be lying under his victim. Captain, tell me something. The M.E. couldn’t come up with any evidence of sexual assault from a male. No semen samples, no anal penetration, no male pubic hairs. But did anyone check for vaginal secretions, female pubic hairs?”

“If they did, it’s not in the report.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I stood up. “I think it’s time we got moving, Captain. Time to go to work. Professor, it’s been instructive. To say the least.”

Brock took my hand, then turned to Vanessa Bouton. “My God, Vanessa, he’s exactly as you described him.”

Bouton tossed me a guilty look, but I didn’t react. Between the three of us, we’d found a scenario that fit all the known facts and a suspect who fit the scenario. That didn’t mean Kennedy was guilty. Nor did it mean that my inflamed cop radar was anything more than wishful thinking. But it was enough to prevent my responding to Bouton’s games.