The Poet (31 page)

“When we divorced I left the VICAP team, started handling mostly BSS research projects, profiles and an occasional case. He switched over to Critical Response. But we still have our little meetings in the cafeteria and on cases like this.”

“Then why don’t you transfer all the way out?”

“Because, like I said, assignment to the national center is a plum. I don’t want to leave and neither does he. It’s either that or he just stays around to spite me. Bob Backus talked to us once and said he thought it would be better if one of us transferred out, but neither of us will blink. They can’t move Gordon because he’s got seniority. He’s been there since the center started. If they move me the unit loses one of the only three females and they know I’ll make a beef about it.”

“What could you do?”

“Just say I’m being moved because I’m a woman. Maybe talk to the Post. The center is one of the bureau’s bright spots. When we come to town to help the local cops we’re heroes, Jack. The media laps it up and the bureau doesn’t want to dim that. So Gordon and I get to keep making dirty faces at each other across the table.”

The plane pushed over into a descent and through the window I could look up ahead. On the far west horizon were the familiar Rockies. We were almost there.

“Were you involved in the interviews of Bundy and Manson, people like that?”

I had heard or read somewhere about the BSS project to interview all known serial rapists and killers in prisons across the country. From the interviews came the psychological data bank the BSS used to create profiles of other killers. The interview project had taken years and I remembered something about it having taken its toll on the agents who faced these men.

“That was a trip,” she said. “Me, Gordon, Bob, we were all part of that. I still get a letter from Charlie every now and then. Usually around Christmas. As a criminal he was most effective in manipulation of his female followers. So I think he thinks that if he is going to get anybody to sympathize with him at the bureau, it will be a woman. Me.”

I saw the logic and nodded.

“And the rapists,” she said. “A lot of the same pathology as the killers. They were some sweet guys, I tell you. I could just feel them sizing me up when I’d go in. I could tell they were trying to figure out how much time they’d have before the guard could get in. You know, whether they could take me before help came in. It really showed their pathology. They only thought in terms of help coming to save me, not that I might be able to defend myself. Save myself. They simply looked at all women as victims. As prey.”

“You mean you talked to these people alone? No separation?”

“The interviews were informal, usually in a lawyer room. No separation but usually a hack hole. The protocol-“

“Hack hole?”

“A window one of the guards could watch through. The protocol called for two agents in all the interviews but in practice there were just too many of these guys. So most of the time, we’d go to a prison and split up. It was quicker that way. The interview rooms were always monitored but every now and then I’d get this creepy chill from some of those guys. Like I was alone. But I couldn’t look up to see if the hack was watching because then the subject would look up and if he saw the hack wasn’t looking, then … you know.”

“Shit.”

“Well, for some of the more violent offenders, my partner and I would do it together. Gordon or Bob or whoever was with me. But it was always faster when we split up and did separate interviews.”

I imagined that if you spent a couple years doing those interviews you’d come away with some psychological baggage of your own. I wondered if that was what she had meant when she had talked about her marriage to Thorson.

“Did you wear the same clothes?” she asked.

“What?”

“You and your brother. You know, like you see some twins do.”

“Oh, the matching stuff. No, thank God. My parents never pulled any of that with us.”

“So who was the black sheep of the family? You or him?”

“Me, definitely. Sean was the saint and I was the sinner.”

“And what are your sins?”

I looked at her.

“Too many to recount here.”

“Really? Then what was the most saintly thing he ever did?”

As the smile dropped off my face at the memory that would be her answer, the plane banked sharply to the left, came out of it and started to climb. Rachel immediately forgot her question and leaned into the aisle so she could look toward the front. Presently I saw Backus coming down the aisle, his hands grabbing the bulkhead for balance. He signaled to Thompson to follow him and they both made their way back to us.

“What is it?” Rachel asked.

“We’re diverting,” Backus said. “I just got a call from Quantico. This morning the field office in Phoenix responded to our alert. One week ago a homicide detective was found dead in his home. It was supposed to be suicide but something was wrong. They’ve ruled it a homicide. Looks like the Poet made a mistake.”

“Phoenix?”

“Yes, the freshest trail.” He looked at his watch. “And we have to hurry. He’s to be buried in four hours and I want to have a look at the body first.”

25

Two government cars and four agents from the field office met us after the jet landed at Sky Harbor International in Phoenix. It was a warm day, compared to where we had come from, and we took our jackets off and carried them with our computer bags and overnighters. Thompson also carried a toolbox which contained his equipment. I rode with Walling and two agents named Matuzak and Mize, white guys who looked like they had less than ten years’ experience combined. It was clear by their deferential treatment of Walling that they held the BSS unit in high esteem. They had either been briefed on the fact that I was a reporter or judged by my beard and hair that I was not an agent despite the FBI seal on my shirt. They paid little attention to me.

“Where are we going?” Walling asked as our gray nondescript Ford followed the gray nondescript Ford carrying Backus and Thompson out of the airport.

“Scottsdale Funeral Home,” Mize said. He was in the front passenger seat while Matuzak drove. He looked at his watch. “Funeral is at two. Your man is probably going to have less than a half hour with the body before they’ll have to suit him up and put him in the box for the show.”

“Was it open casket?”

“Yeah, last night,” Matuzak said. “He’s already been embalmed and made up. I don’t know what you’re expecting.”

“We’re not expecting anything. We just want to look. I assume Agent Backus is being briefed up ahead of us. Do you two care to fill us in?”

“That’s Robert Backus?” Mize said. “He looks so young.”

“Robert Backus Junior.”

“Oh.” Mize made a face that seemed to show that he understood why such a young man was running the show. “Figures.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rachel said. “He’s got the name but he’s also the hardest-working and most thorough agent I’ve ever worked with. He earned the position he has. It probably would have been easier for him, in fact, if he had a name like Mize. Now can one of you fill us in on what’s going on?”

I saw Matuzak study her in the mirror. He then looked over at me and Rachel registered this.

“He’s fine,” she said. “He’s got approval from the top to be here. He knows everything we do. You have a problem with that?”

“Not if you don’t,” Matuzak said. “John, you tell it.”

Mize cleared his throat.

“Not a lot to fill in. We don’t have a lot because we weren’t invited in. But what we do know is they found this guy, name’s William Orsulak, they found him in his house on Monday. Homicide cop. They figured he’d been dead at least three days. He was off Friday ‘cause of comp time and the last time anybody remembered seeing him was Thursday night at a bar they all go to.”

“Who found him?”

“Somebody from the squad when he didn’t show Monday. He was divorced, lived alone. Anyway, they apparently spent all week on the fence. You know, suicide or murder? Eventually, they went with murder. That was yesterday. Apparently there were too many problems with the suicide.”

“What do you know about the scene?”

“I hate to tell you this Agent Walling, but you’d learn just as much as me by picking up one of the local papers. Like I said, Phoenix police didn’t invite us to the dance so we don’t know what they have. After we got the wire from Quantico this morning, Jamie Fox, he’s up in the lead car with Agent Backus, took a look at it while working a little OT doing paperwork. It seemed to fit with what you people were working on and he made the call. Then me and Bob got called out, but like I said, we don’t know what’s what for sure.”

“Fine.” She sounded put out. I knew she wanted to be up in the lead car. “I’m sure we’ll get it at the funeral home. What about the locals?”

“They’re meeting us.”

We parked in the back of the Scottsdale Funeral Home on Camelback Road. The lot was already crowded, though the funeral was still two hours away. There were several men milling about or leaning on cars. Detectives. I could tell. Probably waiting to hear what the FBI had to say. I saw one TV truck with the dish on top parked at the far end of the lot.

Walling and I got out and joined Backus and Thompson and we were led to a rear door of the mortuary. Inside we stepped into a large room with white tile running up to the ceiling. There were two stainless-steel tables for bodies in the center with overhead spray hoses, and stainless-steel counters and equipment against three walls. A group of five men were in the room and as they moved to greet us I could see the body on the far table. I assumed it to be Orsulak, though there was no obvious sign of damage from a gunshot to the head. The body was naked and someone had taken a yard-long length of paper towel from the roll on the counter and placed it across the dead cop’s waist to cover the genitals. The suit Orsulak would wear to the grave was on a hanger on a hook on the far wall.

Handshakes were passed all around between us and the living cops. Thompson was directed to the body and he carried his case over and went to work examining it.

“I don’t think you’ll get anything we don’t already have,” said the one called Grayson, who was in charge of the investigation for the locals. He was a stocky man with an assured and good-natured demeanor. He was deeply tanned, as were the other locals.

“We don’t, either,” said Walling, quick with the politically correct response. “You’ve been over him. Now he’s been washed and readied.”

“But we need to go through the motions,” Backus said.

“Why don’t you folks tell us what you’re working?” Grayson asked. “Maybe we can make some sense out of this.”

“Fair enough,” Backus said.

As Backus gave an abbreviated report on the Poet investigation, I watched Thompson do his work. He was at home with the body, not timid about touching, probing, squeezing. He spent a good amount of time running gloved fingers through the dead man’s gray-white hair and then carefully brushed it back in place with a comb from his own pocket. He then made a careful study of the mouth and throat, using a lighted magnifying glass. At one point he put the magnifier aside and pulled a camera from the toolbox. He took a photo of the throat, the flash drawing the attention of the cops assembled in the room.

“Just documentary photos, gentlemen,” Thompson said, not even looking up from his work.

Next he began studying the extremities of the body, first the right arm and hand, then the left. He used the magnifier again when he studied the left palm and fingers. Then he took two photos of the palm and two of the index finger. The cops in the room didn’t seem to make much of this, seemingly accepting his earlier statement that the photos were routine. But because I had noticed that he had not taken photos of the right hand, I knew he had found something of possible significance on the left. Thompson returned the camera to the box after placing the four new Polaroids it had spit out on the counter. He then continued his search of the body but took no more photos. He interrupted Backus to ask for help in turning the body over, then the head-to-foot search began again. I could see a patch of a dark, waxy material in the back of the dead man’s head and I assumed this to be where the exit wound was. Thompson didn’t bother taking a Polaroid of this.

Thompson finished with the body at about the same time Backus finished his briefing and I wondered if it hadn’t been planned that way.

“Anything?” Backus asked.

“Nothing of note, I don’t think,” Thompson said. “I’d like to review the autopsy if I could. Was the report brought along?”

“As requested,” Grayson said. “Here’s a copy of everything.”

He handed a file to him and Thompson stepped back with it to a counter where he opened it and began scanning pages.

“So, I’ve told you what I know, gentlemen,” Backus said. “Now I’d like to hear what it was about this case that dissuaded you from calling it suicide.”

“Well, I don’t think I was entirely dissuaded until I heard your story,” Grayson said. “Now I think this Poet fucker-excuse me, Agent Walling-is our guy. Anyway, we raised the question and then decided to go with a classification of homicide because of three reasons. One, when we found Bill, his hair was parted the wrong way. For twenty years he’d been coming in the office, his part is on the left. We find him dead and the part’s on the right. That was a little thing but there were two others and they add up. Next was the forensics. We had a guy swab the mouth for GSR so we could make a determination if the gun was in his mouth or held a few inches outside or what. We got the GSR but we also got some gun oil and a third substance that we haven’t been able to identify properly. Until we could explain it I wasn’t comfortable going suicide on this.”