Fury (8 page)

Tuesday, September 18
10:25
A.M.
Day 2 of 6

Special Agent Edward Lewis pushed the earlybird edition of the
Seattle Sun
across the scarred face of the table. The headline screamed “I LIED.” Leanne Samples’s story covered pages one through three and then jumped to page thirteen for the finish and the sidebar. The street edition had completely sold out by 9:30
A.M.

“Is this your work?” Lewis asked. He had a way of looking at you over his glasses that seemed to ask you to consider your answers carefully.

They sat together in an interrogation room on the eleventh floor of the Henry M. Jackson Federal Building. The room was a low-ceilinged, lime-green rectangle that smelled of piss and desperation. The table was bolted to the floor. Behind Agent Lewis, the obligatory mirrored wall loomed like a tunnel. They’d been trading snappy repartee for twenty minutes.

“Sure is,” Corso said.

“You must be feeling pretty good about yourself.”

Corso shook his head. “Way I see it, there’s no ‘feel good’ in this one. Just a lot of prolonged pain for a lot of innocent people.”

“That’s what you journalists do, isn’t it?” Lewis said.

“What’s that?”

“Muck around in other people’s tragedies.”

Corso ignored the barb. “I had a professor once who said that journalists are charged with writing the first draft of history. After that, he claimed, the job fell to editors and historians.”

Lewis shrugged. “So then I’m sure you’ll understand why the Bureau is going to maintain its distance here.”

“Why’s that?”

“We’d prefer to wait for the final edition.”

“Walter Leroy Himes doesn’t have that option.”

“You’ll excuse me if I seem callous, Mr. Corso, but I just can’t work up a great deal of remorse over the idea that Mr. Walter Leroy Himes will soon no longer be among the living.”

“Who can?” Corso said quickly. “Walter Himes is a big, fat, ugly, child-molesting chunk of dog meat who’s probably committed a barrelful of unchronicled crimes, and who’s spent the past three years belittling the victims and taunting the survivors.” Corso hesitated, held up a hand. “None of which, however, makes him a mass murderer or a candidate for a lethal injection,” he finished.

Lewis curled his lips slightly. “Your capacity for compassion is noteworthy, Mr. Corso. You sound a bit like a man of the cloth. Have you ever thought that perhaps you missed your calling?”

“What I think, Agent Lewis, is that tomorrow morning I’m going to print with a story that says that back in ninety-eight the FBI developed a profile of the Trashman murderer and that Walter Leroy Himes wasn’t anywhere near a match.”

Lewis took a sip of his coffee, then picked up his spoon and began to stir the mixture. He smiled. “You know, Mr. Corso, with your unfortunate past history, I’d be extra careful about what I put into print.” Lewis began to read: “January ninety-eight, fired by the
New York Times
for fabricating an investigative story. Subject of the article sues the paper for ten mil…eventually settles for three and change. A month later you end up at the
Seattle Sun
. In April of that same year, you’re attacked outside your Capital Hill apartment. Coupla guys who took issue with your sympathy for Walter Himes. Left you with a skull fracture, a broken nose, fractured collarbone, five broken fingers, and a severe concussion.” Lewis looked up, as if expecting rebuttal from Corso. Corso checked his cuticles.

“Then July ninety-eight.” Lewis flipped a page. “You’re no longer in the direct employ of the
Sun
. Indicted for first-degree assault.”

“Acquitted.”

“August…same summer. Charged with destruction of property—a fifty-six-hundred-dollar camera and simple assault on the cameraman.”

“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.”

“Most likely,” Lewis agreed.

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?”