The Informant (7 page)
Like a butcher with his block, he flattened her hand on the bottom step, palm down, spreading the digits to isolate the ring. He positioned the blade directly on her knuckle, got up on his haunches and came down with all his weight. The bone cracked like a frozen twig, and the blade broke through to the icy concrete. He slid the ring off the bloody stub and gave the stones a closer look, smirking with satisfaction. A diamond
and
emeralds.
He stuffed the prize in his pocket and clutched the wad of cash. “California, here I come,” he said quietly, then peeled off into the night.
57
v
ictoria wasn’t invited to the meeting in Miami with Aaron Fields. The Special Agent in Charge of the Miami Field Office attended, accompanied by David Shapiro, chief of the Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit in Quantico. Not every payment to an informant was handled at this level, but the
Tribune
’s proposal was a bit unusual. Victoria heard about it that same evening, when she checked in with Shapiro for a routine status report. The decision, she was told, was flatly no.
The FBI headquarters was in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, but no one had ever called it that, even before the cross-dressing allegations. Most simply called it “ugly.”
The unsymmetrical tetrahedron covered an entire city block between Ninth and Tenth streets on Pennsylvania Avenue, seven stories high in the front and eleven in the rear, giving the impression that it was about to fall over backward. The exterior walls were unfinished concrete, punctuated with pock marks that
58
James Grippando
looked like machine-gun fire. Victoria entered through the employee entrance on Pennsylvania at 9:00 A.M. and went directly to the office of Tom Dougherty, assistant director of the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division.
Dougherty was several levels of authority above her, outside her normal chain of command. His division directed the work of nearly eighty percent of the Bureau’s agents, and he personally reviewed the undercover review board operation minutes to determine whether every category-one proposal was worth the expense and risk.
Ordinarily, Victoria would no more try to see him without an appointment than she would just drop by the Oval Office. The bottom line, however, was that she liked the
Tribune
’s proposal, and she couldn’t in good conscience let her supervisors kill it simply because it lacked the one thing the FBI valued more than anything else: precedent.
Dougherty was a distinguished fifty-five years old, two years away from the Bureau’s mandatory retirement age, with thick gray hair and a cleft in his chin. He dressed conservatively in a dark blue suit, white shirt and berry red tie. He was rushing out the door to a congressional hearing on Capitol Hill when she caught him outside his office. With his implied permission—he didn’t tell her to get lost—she followed him down the hall, down the elevator, and out the door. His limousine driver was waiting at the curb, a handsome young man who was downright obsequious, showing Dougherty even more deference than she was. She followed him all the way to the open car door, trying to get his ear Finally, he agreed to let her ride along.
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THE INFORMANT
She was nearly out of breath from nonstop speaking as the limo pulled into traffic. “I want you to know, sir, that I’m not one to go over the heads of my supervisors lightly.”
“I appreciate that,” he said dryly. “Because I’m extremely busy.”
He seemed impatient as she continued to plead her case, checking his watch several times, signaling that time was short. She gave him as much information as she could compress into the short ride, but he seemed unmoved.
“I can’t emphasize it enough,” she said. “It’s not every day we get this kind of cooperation from the media. It could provide the breakthrough we need. And compared to the amount of money this investigation has cost so far, the proposed payments to this informant are a bargain.”
He looked up from the open file in his lap; the mention of money seemed to have grabbed his attention. “Obviously, the amount of the payments isn’t the whole issue.
The Justice Department pays about a hundred million dollars a year to informants, most of whom, frankly, are scumbags who never produce squat. The real problem is that we can’t pay him a dime if he’s the killer. We’ll have political hell to pay if it turns out he’s the killer and he gets away with the taxpayers’ money—possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars when all is said and done.”
“I totally agree. That’s the key issue: Is the informant the killer.”
He looked annoyed, but it was his normal expression.
“Well, what do our analysts think?”
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James Grippando
“They’re leaning toward the view that he
is
the killer.”
Her voice grew tighter, and she looked Dougherty in the eye. “But I think they’re wrong.”
“Is that so?” he said with a condescending smile. His smirk slowly faded. “How long have you been with the CASK Unit?”
“Eighteen months. But I spent five years in hostage and crisis negotiation, where I learned a few things about the way the criminal mind works. The truth is, no one has thought more about this case over the last four months than I have. And I just don’t believe this guy’s the killer.”
“Why not?”
“A lot of little things that I don’t have near enough time to explain. But the best reason is Ernest Gill.”
“Who?”
“Gill—it’s a phony name the informant is using. I checked with a historian at the Smithsonian last night.
Turns out there was an Irish sailor by that name on the
SS Californian
, back in 1912. His salary was five English pounds a month. A Boston newspaper paid him five hundred dollars for his story that Lord Stanley, the captain of his ship, saw distress flares fired from the
Titanic
, but he just kept on going.”
“Seems strange that someone demanding money for his story would tie himself to a historical precedent.”
“That’s the point. Gill’s story led to three formal government investigations into Lord Stanley, one in the U.S.
and two in Britain. The newspaper may have paid him a lot of money for what sounded like an unbelievable story.
But as far as anyone could tell, it looks like everything he said was true.”
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THE INFORMANT
“So Mr. Gill is back again, getting paid to tell the truth.”
“I guess that’s his message.”
“But—you’ve lost me now,” he said with a grimace.
“How does his use of the name Gill lead to the conclusion that the informant’s not the killer?”
“Simple: It’s too cute, amateurish, something you’d come across in a bad movie. It’s the ploy of someone fairly dull-witted who
thinks
he’s being clever. The killer’s not at all like that. He’s far more intelligent, far more savvy. At least, in my view he is.”
Dougherty’s look was incredulous. “That’s all you’ve got to go on—his chosen alias is inconsistent with your profile?”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes. It’s like the Yorkshire Ripper case in the late seventies. Obviously I wasn’t around back then, but I studied it in one of my courses at Quantico.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It was in England. After four years of investigation, the police had eight serial murders on their hands with no suspects—until someone mailed in a tape recording, claiming to be the killer. The Brits jumped all over it.
They broadcast it on television and radio, hoping someone would recognize the voice. Hundreds of police officers went out in the field playing the tape for people who lived in the victims’ neighborhoods, hoping they’d recognize the voice. Then finally, as a favor to the experts at Bramshill, one of our agents listened to it. Instantly, he knew it was bogus. There wasn’t any scientific way for him to
know
that. But he was sure he was right, because the tape was inconsistent with the 62
James Grippando
profile of the killer he’d constructed from the evidence.
And you know what? He was right. The guy on the tape wasn’t the killer. It was a hoax.
“I feel just as strongly about Mr. Gill. I’m not saying the informant’s a crank. Somehow, he does appear to have some insight into the killings. But he’s not the killer.
Not in my book.”
Dougherty breathed a heavy sigh. Victoria watched nervously as he mulled it over in his mind. The silence seemed insufferable. He shook his head and was about to speak, but she cut him off.
“I know I’m right, sir.” She spoke firmly and with complete confidence.
He gave her a long, discerning look, but she didn’t flinch. The car rolled to a stop at the guard gate at the Capitol.
“All right,” he said finally, almost begrudgingly. “Put it in writing. Send me a memo requesting that we pay this informant based upon
your
firm professional opinion that the informant is not the killer. If you’re willing to put your neck on the line, I’ll get the money approved.”
She smiled with relief, then opened the car door and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
“I know
I
won’t,” he said flatly. “That’s what your memo’s for.”
She stepped down from the limo and closed the door.
Her smile faded as she stood alone at the guard gate, watching the big black limo pull away.
63
v
ictoria arranged to meet Mike Posten at Mango’s Café in Fort Lauderdale at 2:00 P.M. She’d wanted their first meeting to be out in the open so that their ren-dezvous would appear casual, and Mike had wanted it out of Miami so that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew.
Mango’s was a corner café in the heart of the upscale shopping area on east Fort Lauderdale’s Las Olas Boulevard. It was an older area that had gone up and down with the economy over the decades, but these days it was definitely up. Trendy art galleries, boutiques and antique shops flourished beneath a canopy of bushy palms and sprawling oaks that pointed the way to that famous beach where Connie Francis first sang “Where the Boys Are.”
Victoria stopped at the entrance to the outdoor seating area, a cluster of little marbletop tables surrounded by a railing and manicured hedge running along the sidewalk.
She’d seen Mike’s picture in advance, but she would have spotted him without it.
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James Grippando
He had to be the guy munching on tortilla chips, nervously looking around as if trying to figure out which one was the FBI agent, the wrinkled old Canadian speaking French to his left or the Claudia Schiffer look-alike to his right.
“Mind if I join you?” she said from behind.
He looked up, wiping his hands clean of the lemon he was squeezing into his Evian. He seemed startled by the attractive brunette wearing a sleeveless white shell and plaid shorts. Victoria took it in stride, by now well aware of the effect her slender figure and long bronze legs had on men.
“Actually, I’m waiting on someone,” he said.
“I know. Me.” She extended her hand. “My name’s Victoria Santos. Probably wouldn’t be very discreet of me to flash my credentials.” She dropped into the seat across from him.
“I guess you weren’t what I was expecting.”
She smiled. “Not even the FBI wears trench coats when it’s sunny and eighty degrees out.”
The waitress brought menus, and Victoria ordered a Diet Coke. Mike emptied the rest of his bottled mineral water into a glass, then squeezed in another wedge of lemon.
“That’s a scam, you know,” said Victoria.
“What?”
“The whole bottled-water thing. You might as well be drinking tap water.”
“Do you work for the FBI, or for the Surgeon General?”
“I just know these things. Has it ever occurred to you that
Evian
spelled backwards is
naive
?”
Mike chuckled. “Pretty funny for somebody who’s 65
THE INFORMANT
made a career out of chasing homicidal maniacs.” He sipped his water, then dug a little. “How
did
you get into this line of work, anyway?”
“You dive right in, don’t you?”
“Why not?” He pressed gently: “Your motivation was…?”
She hesitated, then chose the glib response. “When I was a kid I had a thing for Efram Zimbalist Junior.”
Mike nodded. “But Efram never chased serial killers.
Why did you get involved with that?”
She sighed.
That same old question again.
“Well, looked at one way, it’s the ultimate women’s issue. Most serial killers are sexual sadists, and most of their victims are women.”
He waited for more, but there was only silence. “That all you’re going to say?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your answer. It’s so…abstract, depersonalized. Almost sounds evasive.”
She gave him a curious look. She’d used that answer hundreds of times before, and no one had ever called her on it.
He selected a tortilla chip and dipped it in salsa. “The
‘victim’ angle intrigues me, though. Makes me wonder whether there’s something in your background that makes you feel like one.”
“That’s a very personal question.”
“I’m a reporter,” he said with a shrug. “There’s no such thing as ‘too personal.’”
She arched an eyebrow. “And I’m an FBI agent. There’s no such thing as being too abstract or evasive.”
“Another Evian, sir?” asked the waitress.
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James Grippando
“No,” he said, smirking at Victoria. “Just tap water.”
“You learn fast.” She smiled thinly, and then they ordered. A burger for him, something healthy called the
“New Wave Salad” for her. When the waitress was gone, Victoria turned serious.
“We checked out the FedEx package you received. No fingerprints, except your roommate’s and the delivery man’s. Everything else, however, is as you suspected. It was definitely shipped on Thursday, and we’re now as medically certain as we can be that Kincaid wasn’t killed until Friday. I can’t divulge certain details about our investigation, but I can tell you that the Candler County Sheriff got a rather obvious tip on Sunday morning that led him right to Kincaid’s body. That didn’t make much sense to us until we heard about your package. We think they’re connected.”
