Executive Privilege (17 page)

There was nothing friendly about the surroundings in which Eric Loomis found himself. The dull brown walls were stained, the fluorescent lighting flickered at odd moments, and the bridge chair on which he sat was cold and hard. Keith Evans wanted badly to break Loomis but he waited patiently, observing the prisoner for forty-five minutes through a two-way mirror before going into the interrogation room. The lab technician’s legs were secured to a bolt in the floor limiting his range of motion. He sat quietly at first before shifting his position more and more frequently, failing in his attempts to get comfortable and growing more agitated as the seconds ticked away.

When Evans finally entered the room the manacled prisoner looked up. The FBI agent sat on a comfortable chair on the other side of a scarred wooden table and worked hard to mask his distaste. Loomis wore an orange jail-issue jumpsuit, which was intentionally a size too small and cut into the rolls of fat at his waist and thighs. His limp, uncombed hair was oily, there were pimples on his forehead, cheeks, and chin, and the prisoner exuded an odor that reminded Evans of stale cheese. The agent wondered if his reaction to Loomis would still have been revulsion if he was meeting him for the first time under different circumstances and didn’t know what the lab technician had done in the basement of his house.

“Good evening, Mr. Loomis.”

Loomis didn’t answer.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” Evans asked as he placed a tape recorder on the table between them.

“I don’t care what you do.”

“Well you should. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

“We’ll see,” Loomis answered with an enigmatic smile.

“Before we talk, I’m going to give you the Miranda warnings. You probably think you know them from television or the movies but you should listen carefully anyway.”

Loomis folded his arms across his chest and looked away while Evans recited the warnings.

“Do you understand your rights, Mr. Loomis?” Evans asked when he finished.

“Do I look stupid? Of course I understand them. I have a degree in chemistry.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re stupid, Mr. Loomis. I’m required to ask everyone I question if they understand their rights. Not everyone has an IQ as high as yours.”

Loomis raised his head slowly until he was staring into Evans’s eyes. Then he smirked.

“What number interrogation technique is that?”

“I’m sorry?”

“‘Flatter the prisoner and gain his confidence. Make him feel that you’re on his side,’” Loomis said in a mock instructor’s voice.

Evans laughed. “That actually was a heartfelt statement. You are smart and you had us going. If you hadn’t made one small mistake we might never have caught you.”

Loomis looked down. Evans knew the prisoner was dying to know how he’d been tripped up, but he was smart enough not to take the bait.

“Before we go any further, I need to know if you want to be represented by a lawyer.”

Evans wanted to continue questioning Loomis, but Loomis’s answers would be inadmissible in court if he didn’t waive his right to counsel.

“I plan on representing myself, Agent Evans.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? Virginia and Maryland have the death penalty. What you did will qualify you for it.”

Loomis smiled. “Another clever interrogation technique. If I say anything suggesting that I know I qualify for the death penalty you can use my words as an admission.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I just want you to understand the seriousness of your situation. Trying a death penalty case is a specialty. The government will provide you with a lawyer experienced in capital cases if you can’t afford an attorney. Even someone as intelligent as you would have trouble learning everything you’d need to know if you decide to represent yourself.”

Loomis smirked again. “I’ll take my chances.”

“If you’re sure you don’t want a lawyer?” Evans repeated so there wouldn’t be any questions later if Loomis challenged his interrogation.

“Okay,” Evans said when Loomis didn’t answer, “Mr. Loomis has waived his right to an attorney and is choosing to represent himself. So, Eric…Can I call you Eric?”

“Sure, Keith,” Loomis answered sarcastically.

Evans laughed. “You’re okay. Not many people in your position can keep their sense of humor. What I can’t figure out is why someone with a chemistry degree and a good job would kidnap and kill those women.”

Loomis smiled again and shook his head. “You aren’t very good at this, Keith. From your question I take it that I’m supposed to believe that an FBI agent working the biggest serial murder case in the history of the D.C. area has not been schooled by the VICAP experts at Quantico in the psychological profile of the serial killer he’s hunting. Try again.”

“Okay, Eric. Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

Evans shrugged. “Let’s start with Jessica Vasquez. Why did you kidnap her?”

“I didn’t.”

Evans looked perplexed. “You’re saying she somehow found her way into your basement then decided to strip off her clothes, put on an S&M mask and strap herself to a dentist chair? That’s pretty weird behavior.”

“I have no idea how that woman ended up in my basement. But I suspect the FBI may have had something to do with planting her there along with the other so-called evidence you claim to have found.”

Now it was Evans’s turn to smile. “So you’re the victim of a government conspiracy?”

“That’s one possible explanation.”

Evans asked the question he’d been waiting to drop into the conversation.

“Do you think the FBI was so anxious to make an arrest that we murdered Charlotte Walsh and dropped her in a Dumpster, or did the
real
D.C. Ripper do that?”

Loomis sprang upright and strained against the chain that manacled his legs to the floor.

“I did not kill that bitch. That is totally bogus. That is a complete frame-up.”

“That’s hard to believe, seeing as how the MO in Charlotte Walsh’s case is identical to the other Ripper murders.”

“Not if the FBI committed the murder to frame me. You’d know how to duplicate the Ripper’s MO. You think you’re clever but I’m a lot smarter than you and I’ll—”

Loomis stopped. He seemed to realize that he’d lost control. Rage showed on his face for a moment more. Then he slumped down on his chair and stared at the tabletop. Evans tried to continue the conversation, but Loomis refused to speak from that point on.

Maggie Sparks found D.C. police officer Peter Brassos and his partner, Jermaine Collins, sitting at a table in Starbucks, where she’d had their supervisor tell them to meet her. Brassos was thick and heavy muscled and Sparks pegged him for a gym rat. Collins was a lanky, light-skinned African-American. There were no coffee cups on the table and neither man looked pleased to see her.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Sparks said after flashing her credentials. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“What’s this about?” Brassos demanded curtly, ignoring her offer.

“I’m working on the D.C. Ripper task force.”

“I heard you got him,” Collins said.

“We think we have, but there are always loose ends to tie up.”

Brassos looked confused. “We haven’t had anything to do with the Ripper murders.”

Sparks nodded. “This is probably a wild goose chase, and I know you’re anxious to get back to work, so let me get to the point. A few nights ago, you two responded to a 911 call about a shooting at an apartment house on Wisconsin Avenue.”

Both men stiffened as soon as she mentioned the address.

“What about it?” Brassos asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Maggie took out a copy of the police report Brassos had written after the incident. She pretended to check something in it.

“You talked to an Alma Goetz?”

Brassos forced a laugh. “The crazy neighbor. Yeah, I talked to her.”

“You think she’s crazy?” Maggie asked.

“Not crazy but a real busybody, a snoop. Lives alone, wants attention, that type. We run into them from time to time.”

“She said she heard a shot from the apartment of Dana Cutler, the neighbor across the hall.”

Collins’s brow furrowed. “Pardon me, Agent Sparks, but what does this have to do with the Ripper case?”

Sparks flashed a friendly smile. “Cutler’s name came up during the investigation. So, what about the shot?”

“There wasn’t one,” Brassos said. “We went across the hall. The door was unlocked. We knocked. No one answered, so we went in to see if there was an injured person inside. There wasn’t.”

“You looked through the apartment?”

“Yeah, the whole place.”

“Did you see anything that struck you as odd?”

“Nah, it was just an apartment.”

“Why do you think Ms. Goetz was so certain she heard a shot?”

“It was the door,” Brassos said. “She told me she was inside her apartment and heard the so-called shot through the walls. I told you the door to Cutler’s apartment was unlocked. I think Goetz heard the door slam. She’s pretty old. Her hearing probably isn’t great.”

Maggie nodded. “That’s one explanation. I talked to her, and she said she heard someone inside the apartment tell you not to shoot because he was a federal agent.”

Brassos threw his head back and laughed. Maggie thought the laugh sounded forced.

“I told you, the apartment was empty. Goetz is dingy.”

“Yeah, she struck us as unreliable, but what about the wounded man? Where did he come from?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Miss Goetz saw a man being helped out of the apartment by a second man.”

“I told you, there wasn’t anyone in the apartment,” Brassos said.

“Was someone else in the apartment house hurt at the same time?”

“You know, I’m talking to you as a courtesy,” Brassos said. “This sounds like an interrogation to me.” He stood up. “If you got a beef with us about our report, file it. I got work to do. Come on, Jerry.”

Collins stood, too. Sparks did nothing to stop them. If it became necessary, she could always subpoena the officers.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” she apologized as she got to her feet.

“I don’t think you are,” Brassos said, and the officers walked out.

While he’d been interrogating Eric Loomis, Evans was so focused that he forgot he was exhausted, but his fatigue flooded over him as soon as he was done questioning the serial murderer. Evans had turned off his cell phone during the interrogation so he wouldn’t be distracted. When he checked for messages he found one from Maggie Sparks asking him to call as soon as he was able. Evans arranged to meet her at a bar near Dupont Circle and he was washing down the bite he’d taken out of his cheeseburger when Maggie walked in. She scanned the bar and smiled when she saw Keith’s upraised hand.

“How did the interrogation go?” she asked as she slid into the booth opposite Evans.

“Not well, but we don’t need a confession with all the evidence we have. He’s representing himself, by the way. Loomis thinks he’s going to outsmart us.”

“Sounds like he’s a true megalomaniac.”

“A classic case.”

“That should make things easier for the prosecution. Did he offer any explanation for the presence of a naked woman in his basement and all those false teeth?”

“Of course. We planted them to frame him.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

Sparks signaled the waiter and ordered her own beer and burger.

“What did he say when you brought up Walsh?” she asked when the waiter left.

“That’s interesting. He was very calm, very superior, during the questioning, like it amused him. He played mind games with me as soon as I started. But he went ballistic when I mentioned Walsh.”

“What’s your impression?”

“I don’t think he killed her.”

“Whether he did or not, something is going on. I asked for the police reports for the Cutler incident. There is one. Officer Peter Brassos wrote it. He says he and his partner, Jermaine Collins, went to the apartment in response to a 911 report of shots fired. There’s an account of an interview with Miss Goetz that jibes with her version of what happened, but Brassos wrote that he didn’t find any evidence of a shooting in the apartment and there’s no mention of a wounded man being helped out of the apartment.

“I had Brassos’s supervisor set up a meeting. Collins and Brassos told me the door to Cutler’s apartment was unlocked, but there was no one inside and no sign of a shot being fired.”

“What did they say about the wounded man?”

“They told me there wasn’t one.”

“Do you believe them?”

“No. They were nervous all the time I was questioning them. I’m certain they’re covering up something, but I don’t know how we can prove it. There isn’t any evidence that anyone was shot in Cutler’s apartment. I went back and talked to some of the other neighbors. No one admitted that they heard a shot or saw a man being helped out of the place. So what do we do now, boss?”

“I’d like to go to sleep but I’ve been thinking about Dale Perry all afternoon. That fucking gnome pissed me off with that name-dropping bullshit.”

“It’s probably not bullshit. I bet he has tea and crumpets with the AG and our boss every day at four. Guys like that move in circles we can’t even dream about.”

“They also put their pants on one leg at a time, Maggie. I still believe we’re in America where an asshole like Perry is subject to subpoenas and can be perp walked with enough probable cause. So, I’m thinking we pay him a visit and see if we can shake him up a bit. What do you say?”

If you went strictly by mileage Dale Perry’s mansion in McLean, Virginia, wasn’t that far from Keith Evans’s apartment in Bethesda, Maryland. In the real world, the two communities were light-years apart. As far as Evans knew, no Supreme Court justices, members of the Kennedy clan, or former secretaries of defense lived on his block, and none of the homes in Evans’s neighborhood were surrounded by a stone wall and sat on several acres with a view of the Potomac River.

“Old Dale is doing well,” Maggie commented.

“I don’t think we’ll find him begging for handouts anytime soon.”

“Unless the handouts are in the billion-dollar range and earmarked for Boeing or Halliburton.”