Heart of Ice (20 page)

“Look—is it Nicole?—you’re new here, right?”

Like it would be a good thing to be a regular at a breast cancer surgeon’s office. Nic gave the slightest of nods.

“We try to keep Dr. Adler to a schedule, but he takes the time he feels he needs for each patient. And what that means is that he runs late.” She sighed, her ample bosom rising and falling. “But when it’s your turn in there, you’ll be glad of it.”

“I just don’t think I can wait any longer.” Nic made a show of looking at her watch. “I’m missing an important meeting right now.”

It was only half a lie. She
was
missing a meeting. It just wasn’t important.

“Just give me a second, and I’ll check with his nurse.”

Two minutes later Nic repeated her threat to the nurse, the nurse got the doctor, and Nic got ushered back. Feeling like she had jumped the line. Feeling like she hadn’t had any choice.

“I’m Dr. Adler. I’m sorry we’re running behind.” He was a fit-looking man in his midthirties, sinewy and tan, with a narrow face dominated by a beaked nose. He took the envelope from Nic and went out of the room while his nurse told Nic to get undressed from the waist up.

Nic waited. Again. But this time she couldn’t think at all. It wasn’t that her mind was blank. It was that it was filled with too many thoughts.

When Dr. Adler returned, he gave no hint of what he had seen in her films. He had her lie back and then did another breast exam, spending what seemed an endless amount of time. But finally he told her to sit up.

“What I want to do today is a core needle biopsy of the lump. Our radiologist will put a hollow needle into your breast several times so that we can pull out different samples of the growth for pathology to look at the cells. He uses a machine with an automated needle to make sure it’s targeting the area.”

“Sounds like fun,” Nic said.

Dr. Adler didn’t crack a smile, just walked her down the hall to where the radiologist was waiting for her. As she lay facedown and maneuvered her breast into the round hole on the special table, Nic felt more than a little ridiculous.

She was glad her face was turned to the wall so that she could try to put out of her mind that the male radiologist was eye level with her dangling breast. Only it really wasn’t a breast anymore, just an anonymous piece of meat that needed to be cleaned and then injected with a local anesthetic, all accompanied by a murmuring commentary that was oddly soothing. It needed to be compressed and X-rayed and have its skin nicked. It needed to have a needle inserted through the nick. And then there needed to be a new X-ray to make sure the sampling needle would be properly repositioned. And then a second sample. And the whole process needed to be repeated a half dozen times.

Nic had been warned to lie absolutely still, but it was hard not to jump at the clacking sounds the machine made as it vacuumed various spots in a clockwise movement all around what the radiologist called “the target region.” Around the lump. Each felt like a small electric shock.

After about thirty minutes the radiologist taped a gauze bandage over the spot and gave her a Barbie-size ice pack to slip into her bra. And then it was back to the exam room to wait for Dr. Adler.

“Okay, we’re done now, so you can go ahead and get dressed,” he said, once she was back in his office. “Your tissue samples are being sent to pathology, and they’ll let me know as soon as they have the results. It’s possible they might be here tomorrow, although it will probably be the day after. In my practice, I’ve come to believe that it’s better to give patients the news as soon as I know it, so I’ll call as soon as the results are in.”

“Could you tell by looking at my films if it was cancer?”

“No,” Dr. Adler said.

Nic heard the lie in his voice.

CHAPTER 35

Mark O. Hatfield Federal Courthouse

A
llison walked into the grand jury room, set her briefcase and purse on the prosecutor’s table, and turned toward the jurors’ expectant faces. This was one of two federal grand juries, each serving two days every other week for eighteen months. During that time they might be asked to investigate everything from bank robbery to bankruptcy fraud, from radical animal rights groups to sex traffickers. This grand jury had already served about two-thirds of a term, so the members had developed relationships with each other and with all of the federal prosecutors—including Allison.

“Good morning,” she said, and was met with smiles and nods. “Today I’m going to bring you information about the case we are building against Colton Foley, the man we believe robbed and murdered three women, as well as assaulting and robbing several others. In the press he has been dubbed ‘The Want Ad Killer.’”

Her words made the jurors straighten up. A few nodded or murmured. The Want Ad Killer had been front-page news for days. Because grand jurors served for so many months, they weren’t sequestered or forbidden from watching the news in general. But now that they knew they would be considering this particular case, they would have to avoid watching, reading, or hearing anything more about it.

Unlike a trial jury, a grand jury never saw a single case through until the end. Once they had voted to indict a given individual—or declined to—their job was over. Because they weren’t asked to determine guilt or innocence, only decide whether charges should be officially filed, their standards were looser than those of a trial jury. Their decision didn’t even need to be unanimous: only eighteen of the twenty-three needed to agree.

Inside the grand jury room it was only the prosecutor, the jurors, and sometimes a single witness. Allison could have skipped the grand jury and gone right to a probable cause hearing in front of a judge. But in that case, Colton Foley and Michael Stone would have been on hand to hear every word of her argument—and then the balance of power would have tipped the other way. A probable cause hearing gave the defense an early crack at the case, and an opportunity to cross-examine the FBI agent—in this case, Nicole—who testified to the evidence.

“We’ve been able to collect quite a lot of evidence. To help us understand it, I’d like to call to the stand FBI Special Agent Nicole Hedges.”

After coming in from the anteroom and being sworn in by the court reporter, Nicole explained to the grand jurors what she and Allison had learned. She showed the jury the photographs from the hotels’ surveillance cameras and talked about tracing an e-mail sent to one victim back to Foley’s address. Nicole also told them about the locker and the secrets it had contained.

Nic had a good speaking voice, low and lively, that would make her an interesting witness even if she had been describing tax law. Hearing about the hollowed-out textbook, the gun, the panties, and the gift and credit cards left the jurors hanging on her every word.

“We believe,” Nicole said, “that Foley kept some of these items as souvenirs. He may have intended to use the cash and even the credit cards. The gun and the plastic restraints were probably to be used on future victims. But the women’s underwear are more than likely mementos.”

“What do you mean by mementos?” Allison asked, not for herself, but for the grand jury.

“Many serial killers keep souvenirs from their victims. They’re usually personal items that allow them to enjoy the memory of the crime. For a comparable situation, you might think of a woman who keeps a pressed flower or a ticket stub to remind her of a special evening.”

Several of the jurors winced.

After Nicole finished her testimony, Allison asked them, “Do you have any questions for Special Agent Hedges?” She liked to hear what they were interested in, something she would never be able to ask at the jury trial. The grand jurors’ questions could help shape her approach to any future trial. And sometimes they thought of angles she had missed.

The foreman, a retired hardware store owner, was the first to speak. Allison knew she could always count on Gus Leonard to ask a question. And then another. And another.

“When my boy was in high school, he shared a locker.” Gus tilted his head. “Did this Foley share a locker at the medical school?”

“That’s a good question,” Nicole said. “I believe he did not, but I’ll need to check on that.” She made a note. It was the kind of thing that might have tripped them up at trial but would remain secret in the grand jury room.

Gus and a few of the other jurors asked a half dozen more questions. Once they had satisfied their curiosity, Allison excused Nicole and asked her to tell Foley to come on in.

Although they would have rehearsed Foley’s testimony a dozen times, Michael Stone would not be allowed to accompany his client into the grand jury room. Instead he would be forced to sit in the hall, twiddling his thumbs and hoping that his client didn’t open his mouth and hang himself. Foley could always ask for a break to confer with his lawyer, but Allison was betting that he wouldn’t want to seem weak by asking for advice, or guilty by taking the Fifth.

If Foley was a sociopath, as they suspected, then he would probably use charm and chutzpah to try to twist the truth to his own dark ends, pile lie upon lie. But what worked well with an individual person—say his fiancée—would more than likely falter under the cold eyes of twenty-three grand jurors and one federal prosecutor.

Foley walked to the witness stand with the faintest of swaggers in his step. He wasn’t conventionally handsome—his face still looked a bit unfinished, and his dark hair needed a trim—but he carried himself as if he knew he deserved for all eyes to be fastened upon him. As he took his seat, his expression was oddly cheerful.

Allison said, “Mr. Foley, we are here today to talk to you about the three women found robbed and murdered in downtown hotels, as well as additional women who have come forward to say that you robbed them.”

He shook his head emphatically. “I had nothing to do with what happened to these poor unfortunate women. In fact, I myself am the victim of shoddy police work.”

Allison ignored his innuendo. “First of all, Mr. Foley, e-mails sent to one of the victims arranging for her to go to the hotel where she was murdered were traced back to your IP address.”

He shrugged. “I live in a condo, and I have a wireless router. That means any of my neighbors can and do leech off my Internet. Some of those units are rentals—people are moving in and out all the time. There’s even a coffee shop on the ground floor where you can piggyback on my signal if you sit in the right corner.”

It might have been a good argument—if they didn’t have an entire web of evidence. Allison picked up a photograph from the prosecutor’s table. “Mr. Foley, let me show you what’s been marked as Grand Jury Exhibit 36.” It was one of the photos they had shown the grand jury earlier. “It’s a photo taken by a surveillance camera in the hotel an hour before one of the victims was found. Tell me what you see.”

He glanced at it. “A man wearing a baseball cap.”

“What color is his hair?”

“Dark brown.” He squinted. “Maybe black. It’s hard to tell. The lighting is dim.”

She handed him three more photos. “These are Grand Jury Exhibits 37, 38, and 39. Do they appear to show the same person?”

Foley shrugged. “I guess. They’re not very good photos.”

“And what about the jacket the man in those photos is wearing. Does it look familiar?”

He looked from one picture to another. “I’m not sure.”

She handed him another photo. “This is Grand Jury Exhibit 40. It’s an enlargement of the first photo, but focused on his jacket. Can you tell me what brand it is?”

“Columbia.”

“And do you yourself own a similar jacket, Mr. Foley?” It had been seized in the search of his apartment.

“It’s possible. Columbia Sportswear is headquartered here; there are at least four Columbia stores within five miles of my house. I would guess every other person in Portland owns something made by Columbia.” Foley seemed to grow a little bit taller.

His strategy seemed to be to cast doubt on every connection between him and the victims. Allison was sure it wouldn’t work for the grand jury. Unlike a trial jury, they only had to decide if there was
prima facie
—Latin for “at first glance”—evidence that crimes had been committed and that the accused had done the committing. But a trial jury might look at Colton Foley and see an upstanding medical student who had been caught in a web of unfortunate coincidences.

Allison took a deep breath. “I want to remind you, Mr. Foley, that you are under oath.” She handed him the stack of photos that had shattered Zoe. “These are grand jury exhibits 41 through 49—items that were found in your medical school locker. They include plastic restraints, six pairs of women’s panties, a gun, a gift card belonging to one victim, and a credit card in the name of another. Do you want to explain that all away, or do you want to tell the truth?”

“The truth?” He leaned forward, pointedly making brief eye contact with every grand juror. “The truth is that we all know that the Portland police have been battling a public relations nightmare. In the past year, one Portland cop has been convicted of sexually harassing women. Other officers have been charged with using excessive force. When the media began to blame the police for not finding this so-called Want Ad Killer, they were frantic to find someone to pin this on. I am the victim of a discredited police department desperate to put an end to a media disaster. I superficially fit a few of the characteristics of the real killer, so they planted evidence in my medical school locker to take the heat off. They came to the place that’s the most sacred to me”—Foley’s voice actually broke—“the place where I am learning to be a healer, and they took evidence that was already in their possession from the crime scenes and used it to frame me.”

His words rang out with an intensity that was nearly mesmerizing. Allison glanced at their jurors’ faces. They seemed to be listening.

A chill ran down her back. Colton Foley wouldn’t walk—would he?

CHAPTER 36

Mark O. Hatfield Federal Courthouse