Heart of Ice (11 page)

Brad Buffet, the anchor, asked, “Do authorities suspect that there are other victims out there, Cassidy?”

She nodded. “The assistant United States attorney has posted an ad in the weekly alternative paper—ironically, the same paper believed to have been used by the killer to hook up with the three dead women. The ad says something like
Please come forward if you were a victim
. But will they? It’s quite possible they were doing something illegal. We may never know how many more victims are out there. But one young woman says that there is yet one more victim in this story: Colton Foley himself. She is Zoe Barrett, Foley’s fiancée.”

This part of the story was a “donut,” with Cassidy speaking on either side of a piece of video that had been put together beforehand. In the video, she sat in an upholstered chair while Zoe Barrett, a blandly pretty woman with honey-blonde hair, faced her on a matching couch. With her big eyes and snub nose, Zoe looked younger than her twenty-three years. But her words were direct and her tone unwavering.

“Your fiancé, Colton Foley, is facing accusations that he is the man behind what have become known as the Want Ad Killings,” Cassidy said. “How do you feel about that?”

“Unfortunately, Cassidy,” Zoe said, “you were given wrong information, as were the rest of the press and the public. Colton is completely innocent of these trumped-up charges.”

Cassidy offered her a patient smile. “Pardon me for saying this, but isn’t that what anyone in your situation would say?”

“You think I wouldn’t know?” Zoe straightened up. “I met this man three years ago when we volunteered at a food bank. We’re both training to be doctors. We’ve lived together for the past eight months. I know Colton’s character, inside and out. He is a kind, gentle, caring man, not some sick killer. The police have got the wrong man, but they don’t want to admit it. Colton was set up.”

“But why would they do that?” Cassidy persisted. “What would be their motive?”

“Cash,” Zoe said bluntly. “We’ve heard that a Portland police officer has been making the rounds of the tabloids, trying to make big bucks off of selling Colton’s story.”

Was it possible? Sure, one cop might want to leak something to the media in the hopes of getting an under-the-table payment. But a whole task force focusing on the wrong man? The reasoning seemed thin, even specious. The girl was grasping at straws, but she was too close to see it.

“All of his friends and family would tell you the same thing: Colton is a kind, intelligent man,” Zoe said. “We need to get this travesty of justice reversed as soon as possible. Colton and I still plan to marry in September and share a wonderful, meaningful life together.”

Cassidy recognized a rote response when she heard one. The last thing she wanted was a well-rehearsed speech that might—and probably would be—given to every reporter who got close enough. Trying to build a bridge between them, she softened her voice. “It must be terrible for you.”

Tears welled in the young woman’s eyes. “My fiancé is in prison on some trumped-up charge, and I am being hounded everywhere I turn. The reporters, the shouting, the questions from the police . . . it’s all been too much. The man who is being portrayed in the media is nothing like the man I know. The man I’ve known for three years.”

“I know this is awkward,” Cassidy said carefully, “but what about those plastic restraints found in your condo?”

Zoe colored and put her hands to her face. “My private life is private. All I can say is that those were part of my private life, the life I shared with Colton. The only woman those were used on was me. With my consent.”

“Uh-huh,” Cassidy said noncommittally. She made a mental note to point out the wording to Allison and Nicole. Despite what Zoe had said earlier at the press conference, it sounded like the restraints had been Colton’s idea. Had he wanted to try them out on a more willing victim before he took them on the road? Or had he tried to spice up his home life by mingling in some of the elements of his acted-out fantasies?

Zoe sighed. “I really don’t want to say anything further. Just that I love Colton, and I know he will be proven innocent of these charges. And that’s up to the courts to decide. Not the media. Not the court of public opinion. The justice system. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

At that point, Cassidy had known she couldn’t press the young woman any further. “We wish you the best of luck.”

Back in the studio, she introduced the second segment, the one with the accused killer himself. The one that, to her at least, revealed the truth behind the mask.

“And finally tonight, in this exclusive interview with Channel Four, Colton Foley speaks out for the first time from inside the Multnomah County Jail. We spoke to him earlier this afternoon by telephone.”

The screen switched to a graphic that read
Accused Want Ad Killer Speaks Out
and had images of a gun, a high-heeled shoe on its side, a set of plastic restraints, and a piece of torn newsprint.

In a series of text messages, Cassidy, Allison, and Nicole had brainstormed about the best way to catch Foley in a lie. In the end they had decided that his vanity was his weak spot. From the outside, Foley looked perfect. And if he was a sociopath, as Nicole believed, then he could not stand to be thought of as anything less than perfect.

Now the video switched to a still photo of Cassidy on the left side of the screen and on the right a photo of Foley taken at his arraignment. In Cassidy’s experience covering the crime beat, most first-time offenders looked terrible at their arraignments, with bruised eyes, uncombed hair, and rumpled clothes. Foley looked like a model—or a politician—in a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie.

Cassidy’s voice began the segment. “First of all, Colton, is there anything you’d like to say to Channel Four’s viewers?” On the bottom of the screen, the words appeared as they were spoken.

“My heart goes out to these women and their families. I pray that they will find the perpetrator.”

“So you’re saying you’re innocent?”

“Of course.” His tone was relaxed.

“Then why did the police arrest you?”

“I suspect it’s on the basis of a faint resemblance between me and the real killer, whose image was caught on the hotel surveillance tape. You have to look at this logically, Cassidy. The police were desperate. The public was demanding that they solve this crime. So they brought me in and hoped that all the attention would scare the real killer off.”

“Did you know you were the subject of a manhunt?” Cassidy asked.

“Like everyone else, I had been reading about the situation in the
Oregonian
. Of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time when the police said they were looking for a young man with dark hair who was about five foot eleven. I mean, that could be anyone! But then my family said the police had been by asking leading questions about me. So I knew. I orchestrated my own capture, for my family and fiancée’s sake. They feared, with reason, that I would be killed. So I made sure that I was spotted in a public place where there were plenty of witnesses.”

“Are you saying you were afraid the police would harm you?”

It seemed that Foley’s theory was that if you threw enough dirt, some of it was bound to stick.

“I’m saying that there was a lot of pressure on them to solve the case. There’s clearly been a rush to judgment. And if I were dead, it would save them having to put me on trial. It would save them having to admit that they got the wrong guy. Look, Cassidy, I can’t say much more. I need to save it for my defense. But I can tell you this—I am completely innocent of these accusations.”

Cassidy got ready to dangle the bait. “You know, Colton, I interviewed a well-known profiler today, and she said that the type of man who would commit these acts would feel powerless and afraid most of the time. Basically, she said the person who did this is a coward. The type of person with no real friends and no real relationships. The only way he could get love is to buy it.”

“Then that clearly rules me out,” Foley said evenly, but Cassidy thought she detected strain in his voice. “Anyone who looks at Zoe would know that I’m an extremely lucky man.”

Nicole had said that sociopaths were all about the surface, all about appearances.

“The profiler also said,” Cassidy continued, weaving the web that her friends had designed, “that the type of women the man sought out was very revealing. What kind of man would go out of his way to seek out grossly overweight women?” Photos of two of the victims had not yet been released to the public, but this was a flat lie. A lie designed to prick Foley’s vanity.

“But—” Colton began, then cut himself off midsentence.

“But what?” Cassidy echoed, not letting her jubilation show. “Are you saying they weren’t?”

“How would I know.” It wasn’t a question. “I never saw them.” Foley’s voice grew stronger as he found a lie to paper over the other lies. “But if they were making a living selling their bodies, I would imagine they would have to be attractive.”

Cassidy tried one last time to knock Foley off balance. “Unless this man was so unattractive himself that he could only feel better about himself by paying women who were even less attractive than he was.”

Foley’s mocking tone was firmly back in place. “Interesting theory, Cassidy. But the facts are these: I have no idea what these women looked like because I never saw them. I was never there.”

CHAPTER 20

Mark O. Hatfield Federal Courthouse

A
llison had always known it was likely that Colton Foley had other victims. And her hunch had been confirmed when a woman answered the ad she and Nicole ran in the alternative paper. She called in to report that she had been robbed by a man who “looked like that guy on the TV.”

Nicole and Allison arranged a meeting with her in Allison’s office. Allison could never interview potential witnesses by herself. If they said something different on the witness stand, she couldn’t take the stand herself to rebut them.

“So take us through what happened,” Allison said to the woman, who was named Didi. Her face was a mask of makeup, and she had to throw her shoulders back to offset the weight of what had to be implants.

“He saw my ad and called me, said he’d like to come spend some time with me.” Didi had a smoker’s rough voice.

Allison said, “And the assumption was . . .”

“The assumption was that he would pay me for my time.” Didi’s tone was matter-of-fact. Allison had already reassured her that she wouldn’t be prosecuted for prostitution. “My rate is $200 an hour. He called me when he got to my hotel. I met him by the elevator. I do that for security purposes. And if I’m not comfortable, I just walk away.”

Nicole made a note. “And what did you see?”

“Just a regular good-looking guy.”

“Do you recognize that man in any of these photos?” Allison slid a six-pack over to Didi. A six-pack was like a lineup, only with photos. They had chosen the other photos with care. If the other five looked too much like Foley, it might serve only to confuse the witness. At the same time, they couldn’t salt the six-pack by using a black guy, an elderly nun, and the kid who starred in
The Wonder Years
. If Didi testified, the photo array would be part of the evidence. If the evidence seemed biased, the defense attorney would move to suppress it.

It took Didi only a second to pick out Foley’s photo. “That’s him,” she said, tapping it with one long pink fingernail.

“So then what happened?” Allison asked.

“So I said hi, and he said hi, and I motioned for him to follow me. Because I didn’t want to be talking about it in the hallway. As soon as we got to the room and I closed the door, he pointed the gun at me and told me to lie down on the ground.” She put her hand to her chest. “My heart started beating so fast. And I was saying, ‘You don’t have to do this, I’ll give you what you want, you don’t have to do this.’ But he just kept telling me to lie down, and that he wasn’t going to hurt me. And when I lay down, he put the gun back in his pocket. He pulled on some black leather gloves. Then he knelt down with one knee between my legs and told me to put my hands behind my back. And he tied me up.”

“Did you think he was going to hurt you?” Nicole asked. “Kill you?”

Didi shrugged, but Allison noticed how her hands twisted together. “I wasn’t as nervous as before, because of him putting the gun away. He cut the phone line, and then he picked up my phone and erased his number out of the call log, then took out the battery and threw it behind the bed. Then he opened up my purse, put my money in his pocket, and took my credit cards, and he asked me the PIN number for my bank card. Which I told him. I was too rattled to make up a number.”

Nicole asked, “Did he take anything else?”

Didi nodded. “My suitcase was in a corner, and he walked over to it and picked up a pair of my underwear and put them in his pocket.”

Allison and Nicole exchanged a look.

It took another twenty minutes to finish interviewing Didi. Before she left, she shook her head and said, “I just don’t understand how somebody that is obviously smart, has his own life ahead of him, has a beautiful fiancée, is getting married, is gonna, you know, live the life, could do something like this.”

“That’s what we’re wondering too,” Allison said. “But what about you, Didi? If you keep doing this, the next time the guy might not put the gun back in his pocket.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve quit,” Didi said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s too dangerous. I’m probably going to go back to school.”

“That’s good!” Allison patted the back of her hand and tried not to think about how the girl hadn’t met her eyes.

Nicole walked Didi out to the lobby. When she came back, she said a single word: “Souvenirs.”

“Yeah. It sounds like it,” Allison said.

Serial killers often took a little token with them before they left the scene of a crime. Sometimes it was something that would never be missed, like change from a victim’s pocket. Sometimes it was a driver’s license or a piece of jewelry. And sometimes it was something intimate, like underwear.