Total Victim Theory (43 page)

I feel my lips bend into some putrid, toxic smile.

Then I inch my feet to the edge of the chair so my toes hang off. Shifting my weight forward makes the rope grows taut and I
kick the chair away.

The noose constricts around my throat, cutting off my airway.

Swinging slightly from side to side. Legs flail and hands grapple with the noose as if to pry it from my throat. Even now my coward body betrays my resolve.

The room is silent except for tiny anguished choking sounds.

But now I become aware of something dark nearby.

A presence. A tall gathering of gloom off to the left.

Can’t see the details, but I can narrow it down.

Either an angel come to watch over me. Or just the opposite.

I see that the door to the adjoining room is slightly ajar.

But then the next moment, there's a face in front of me.

Silva, who, at his height, stands just below eye-level.

I would kill him if I could, but the room is growing dim. Succumbing to a murky, rippling blue.

Something silver flashes before me.

There's a knife in his hand. He’s thrusting out his arm. But not at me. Above.

His hand moves back and forth in a sawing motion and, a second later, I feel the rope give. I drop to the ground. My upper body plops down on my limp legs with a crunch, and I flop over on my back.

I yank at the noose. Gasping, as air enters my famished lungs.

Silva, above me now, is folding up the blade of what looks like a Swiss Army knife. He slips it in his pocket.

My half-suffocated brain barely grasps what's happening. I barely know where I am. I just know I'm still alive despite my best efforts to be otherwise. I try to speak, but I’m too out-of-breath to form words.

He leans over as if he's got something to say.

With all the strength I can muster, I lift my hand and drag it across my chest to my holster. I think I have just enough strength. My finger's touching the snap, unfastening it, and I feel the handle in my hand.

I have it. And it's out and my finger is on the trigger.

But then, there’s pain. A new pain that shoots through my arm like needles in my veins. I cry out and looking to my left, see that he's brought his boot down hard upon my wrist. There's a crack of bone, and my hand goes limp and he kicks the gun away.

I look up at his blank, grave face.

He’s speaking but his lips seem out of sync. “It's nice to see you again,” he says, “without all this pretense of being people we're not.”

My voice is raspy through clenched teeth. “Why did you cut me down, you son-of-a-bitch?”

“Because, Jake, it's not always about death. And it's not always about murder. If everyone's dead, what's the point of any of this? Sometimes the cruelest thing is just to let someone live,” Silva says, wistfully.

“You got your revenge,” I croak. “Was it worth it?”

“Revenge?” He sounds surprised. “Oh, you're talking about my father.” He laughs. “No, it wasn't about revenge. I never gave a shit about that asshole. In fact, I'm glad you killed him. I never would have become what I am now without that little push.”

“Then why did you . . .” I cough, “why did you do all of this?”

He looks over toward the window. Then I hear very faintly, the sound of sirens.

“I couldn't say exactly. But it's something a hell of a lot purer than revenge. And it’s not about hatred either. I never hated you for a second. I want you to know that. This was about something bigger than ourselves. Something that might go on and on forever. It's about you being the way you are. And about me being the way I am. And somehow that required all this to happen."

Already the sirens are rising to a howl.

“But I'm kind of talking out of my ass now. It's probably better to just leave it alone,” he says. “Besides, I've got to be getting along.” He looks into my eyes. “Don't know if we'll see each other around after this.” He smiles. “I sort of hope so. But if not, you take care of yourself, Jake.”

Then he turns and recedes from my field of vision. I hear him fumbling with something on the other side of the room by the bed. Then I hear the click of my briefcase opening. Instantly I know what he’s doing. He's taking the ledger back.

A moment later, the sound of the door to the adjoining room closing. Then the lock fastening from the other side. I'm too weak to move. To even crawl over and get my gun.

So I just lay here and close my eyes.

54

Colorado

“Do you recognize this man?” Agent Bloom asked, placing a photograph on the table between himself and Luke Porter—a.k.a., Luke Glattmann, a.k.a., the Handyman Killer. The photo was of Detective Hernan Silva, a member of the Juárez PD and, for the last sixty days, a missing person.

Porter, clad in purple scrubs, picked up the photo and examined it. Bloom, who hadn't seen the killer in the three months since his arrest, was surprised at how thin he looked. His arms, muscular before, were now sinewy and laced with veins, while his once-angular face looked gaunt, with sunken-in eyes and cheekbones that jutted out in high relief.

The interview, which had started an hour ago, followed at the heels of the plea bargain reached late last week. Under the deal, Porter avoided the death penalty and received life in prison without the possibility of parole in exchange for his signed confession to the twelve Handyman murders. Porter also stipulated to answer questions about the Ropes slayings—the Juárez case that showed several hitherto unexplained similarities to Porter's crimes. Such was the theme of the present interrogation.

Porter was still looking at the photo, clearly lost in thought. A confused, even nostalgic expression settled over his face. Bloom glanced down at the slowly turning reels of the recorder on the table to assure himself that the device was still recording.

Showing Porter the photo of Silva was a shot in the dark based on Agent Jake Radley's wild and perplexing claim that the AWOL
detective was himself the elusive Ropes predator (as well as the murderer of Radley's daughter). The allegation was undoubtedly far-fetched, but with the investigation once again stalled, even the less-promising leads had to be followed up on.

“Does that person look familiar?” Bloom asked again, when Porter had made no response for close to two minutes.

As if being pulled out of some trance-like state, Porter looked up from the photo and flashed a smile. “Shave off that beard, and take away the glasses, and that's him.”

“Excuse me?” Bloom asked.

“That's my brother Tad.”

Porter's abrupt pronouncement stunned Bloom. The identification was in effect a double revelation—fairly sweeping in its implications. Not only had Radley's allegation against Silva just been corroborated, but the elusive relationship between the Ropes and Handyman killings might have been pinned down. Bloom, however, did his best to contain his enthusiasm and to regard Porter's statement with a healthy dose of skepticism. After all, this individual was a psychopath, first class. As nature's born liars, nothing they said could be taken at face value. Bloom met Porter's gaze. “My understanding is that you haven't seen your brother in a number of—”

“It's been twenty years,” Porter said.

“After twenty years, how confident can you be about that identification?”

“One hundred percent. It's something in the eyes. Something that's missing,” Porter responded. “I could never forget that look. And I’d hoped I’d never encounter it again.”

Bloom took a moment to organize his thoughts. He jotted a few notes on the legal pad in front of him, before finally looking back up at the prisoner. “Okay, Luke, assuming for the moment what you’ve said is true—that Silva is Tad Glattmann—I’d like you to tell me all you can about your older brother.”

And Porter obliged, providing a harrowing account of his and his brother's upbringing on a cattle ranch outside of El Paso, where his father made a career of defrauding and killing ranch hands and disposing of their remains in a shocking, albeit expedient, fashion. The narrative related the death of Porter's father, killed at the hands of his own workers after the discovery of
the ranch’s ghastly secret, and concluded with Porter’s subsequent adoption by relatives in Utah.

At noon, the interview was adjourned for lunch. Bloom, however, could barely eat, busy as he was, digesting the wealth of fantastic, if largely unverifiable, information Porter had just imparted. The task now was to determine which parts were true and decide how the truth could be used to get Ropes speedily behind bars.

*

At 1:00 p.m., Porter was escorted back into the conference room by two uniformed guards. He settled into his seat while Bloom flipped the tape and restarted the recorder.

“I want to go back to the day of the fire.” Bloom opened his briefcase and took from it the 1992 police file on Glattmann Ranch, obtained from the El Paso PD. “The investigating officers only noted the remains of six individuals—all of whom reportedly died the night of the fire.” Bloom looked at Porter. “Why didn't they find evidence of any of the other murders you’ve alluded to?”

“I guess because alligators have healthy appetites.” Luke glanced up at the ceiling. “That and the Mexicans that survived didn't know about what happened before.”

“What about all the other evidence? There must have been mounds of it.”

“Are you kidding?” Porter laughed. “My father was a nut about that sort of thing. Totally anal retentive. He’d put us on cleaning detail the night following a murder. We’d scrub the barn top to bottom and go over every inch of it on our hands and knees to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

“What about their clothes and their personal belongings?”

“He'd gather up everything, cross the border, and burn it in an oil drum in the desert. Other times, he'd wash the clothes and drop them off at Goodwill—that was his idea of a joke. But I guess he just had it figured out, so he didn't leave much behind in the way of evidence. You know the cops searched the ranch twice before the day of the fire and didn't find so much as a fingerprint.”

“When did that happen?”

“Once when a kid from down the street went missing and once when my mother died.”

“How did your mother die?”

“In a terrible and well-deserved accident,” he said.

“What kind of accident?”

Porter paused for a moment, but his face remained expressionless. “Next question, please.”

Bloom didn't understand Porter's aversion to that subject. However, he didn't want to jeopardize the rapport they'd established by pressing the issue. “What were the circumstances of the missing kid?”

Porter's face flushed. He seemed agitated. “Let's move on, Agent Bloom. I don't think this is relevant to your investigation.”

Bloom stared at Porter, trying to decipher the meaning of this strange reaction. “Okay, no problem,” Bloom finally said, glancing down at his notes on the legal pad. “What do you think happened to Tad after the fire?”

“Tad took off in the Jeep. My dad had been packing up a bunch of stuff just beforehand, so he may have made off with some cash and valuables as well.”

“And where do you think he went?”

“To Mexico—Juárez, I suppose.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Gary used to take Tad along to pick up new workers because his Spanish was so good. Tad always talked about how much he liked it down there.”

“What did he like about it?”

“It's a city full of strangers. People don't notice each other and they don't notice when someone's missing. Plus, the cops didn't give a crap about anything. It was like spring break for him. Total freedom. Zero interference.”

“Freedom—in terms of what?”

“Killing.”

“Did he kill people on those trips with your father?”

“I assumed so. I was never invited. They'd go down there for days at a time. I think he let Tad run pretty wild.”

“Would your father have participated in or abetted these activities?”

“Participated? Probably not. As far as I know he kept his nose clean off the ranch. Abetted? Maybe.”

Bloom poured himself a glass of water and took a sip. “What
can you tell me about why your brother is committing these crimes?”

“His motive?” Porter asked.

“Yeah.”

“That's something I hope I never really understand.”

“Meaning?” Bloom asked.

“When you really grasp something, it becomes part of you. And sometimes, once something's in you, it's really hard to get it out.” Porter paused. “Do you know what I mean?”

“I'm not sure if I understand,” Bloom admitted.

“I'm not sure I do either.” Porter smiled weakly. “I guess what I'm saying is that whatever made Tad, Tad—I don't want any part of that.”

Bloom hesitated, unsure what to make of the comment. Was Porter being ironic—clearly he'd committed crimes that were in some ways similar to his brother's? Or was he suggesting that his brother's crimes were truly different than his own? “Could you speak to what that thing is that makes Tad, Tad?”

“His interest in killing was different than other people's.” Luke popped his knuckles. “Different than my father's. Very different than my own.”

“Different how?”

A deep pensive sigh. “His fascination with murder was . . . it was almost mystical.”

“Mystical?” Bloom asked.

Luke popped his knuckles and seemed to hesitate. “Let's come back to that. I'm not sure how to explain.”

“And you observed that quality in him, even when you two were boys?”

“Of course.”

“Do you remember anything happening to him that might have influenced his behavior? Some experience that led to his interest in killing?”

“It's not like that,” Porter said. “I'm not sure you'll be able to understand.”

“It’s not like
what
?”

“It's not about something that happened to him. It's not like there's something broken inside of him.”

“How could something not be broken with all the things—”

“It's more like a way of being. A very, very bad way of being. A trait that he luckily doesn't share with many other people.”

“And that doesn't make him broken?”