Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

“Now,” Evans said the moment Loomis shut the van’s door behind him. Four agents in SWAT black rushed inside the garage, and the tailing car swung in front of the van to block an escape attempt.

“FBI, FBI!” Evans heard the SWAT team shout as he sprinted across the street. The men who’d come through the front of the garage trapped Loomis against the van just as the side door to the garage jerked open. Evans lost sight of Loomis as more agents surrounded him. By the time he entered the garage Loomis was flattened against the side of the van and his hands were cuffed behind him.

The SWAT members parted leaving him face to face with his prisoner. Evans had checked for a criminal record and found two traffic tickets. Loomis’s record was as unexciting as his appearance. If he had to use one word to describe the prisoner it would be “soft.” The lab technician was five ten and flabby. His hair looked limp, and he wore thick glasses with a black plastic frame. An unimpressive mustache graced his upper lip and a scraggy goatee hid a weak chin.

“Eric Loomis?” Evans asked.

Loomis looked dazed. “What…what is this?” he stuttered.

“Are you Eric Loomis?” Evans repeated.

“Yes, but…”

“Mr. Loomis, I have a search warrant for your home. With your permission, one of my men will use your keys to open your door.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you don’t help us by letting us use your keys and telling us the combination for your alarm, we’ll have to break, in and that could cause damage to your door.”

“Wait a second. What’s going on? Why do you want to search my house?” Loomis asked, his voice rising.

“Will you give us permission to use your keys?”

Loomis was sweating and looked panicky. His head jerked around. Everywhere were men in black with menacing countenances.

“I don’t know,” he managed.

“Very well, Mr. Loomis, since you’re unwilling to cooperate I’ll have one of my men break the window in your side door.”

“Wait, don’t. The keys are in my pocket. Don’t break anything.”

Evans nodded, and Maggie Sparks stepped forward. When Loomis saw that an attractive woman was going to search him, he flushed and looked even more anxious. When Sparks fished in his pocket for his set of keys Loomis grew rigid.

“The combination, please,” Evans commanded.

Sparks opened the door and shut off the alarm, and Loomis was herded into the living room and placed in an armchair. The prisoner was docile, head down, eyes on the floor. Evans left two agents with him then organized a search of the house. As soon as the search teams dispersed, Evans and Sparks headed for the basement. The first thing that hit them when they opened the door was the smell of rotting meat. Evans slipped on a surgical mask, Tyvek booties, and latex gloves. Then he turned on the light at the top of the stairs and walked down cautiously with his weapon drawn. Everyone assumed that the Ripper was a loner, but you never knew.

The first thing Evans noticed was the soundproofing. Loomis had made sure that the neighbors would not hear his victims scream. The next thing he noticed was the shelf against the wall. Arrayed across it were four glass jars. In each jar was a model of a set of teeth. Evans froze on the stairs when he saw the teeth and so did Sparks. In the silence they heard labored breathing.

The basement had the feel of an operating room. Bloodstains covered the floor, and a table covered with surgical tools stood to one side. But it wasn’t these implements that drew the eye, nor was it the two large dog cages that stood against one of the walls. What stunned Evans and Sparks was the dental chair that was positioned in the center of the room and the naked, gagged woman who was manacled to it.

Jessica Vasquez was hungry and dehydrated but she appeared to be unharmed with the exception of some bruises she’d received when Loomis kidnapped her from a mall parking lot several days earlier. Evans and Sparks talked to Vasquez while they waited for the ambulance to take her to the hospital. She told them that Loomis had kept her in one of the dog cages without food or water for two days and never spoke to her during her ordeal. One evening, he’d drugged her and taken impressions of her teeth before returning her to the cage. This morning, he had manacled her to the chair and fitted her with a leather S &M mask with a ball gag before he went to the lab.

“I know I should feel elated, but I just feel sick and exhausted,” Evans told Maggie as they watched the ambulance carrying Vasquez disappear around the corner.

“Hey, get a grip. We saved Jessica Vasquez’s life and captured a truly evil man. You should feel proud of what we accomplished.”

“But I don’t. I just feel sad because of what those other poor souls went through.”

Sparks laid a hand on his forearm. “You’ll never save everybody, Keith. Think of all the women who are going to be safe because Loomis will be behind bars.”

“Good point, but I still feel sick about what we saw in that basement.”

“You can take a shower tonight. And I’ll buy you a drink or two after we interrogate Loomis.”

“I don’t know, Maggie…”

“Well I do. You’re too damn maudlin for someone whose team just cracked one of the biggest serial cases in D.C. history.”

“Agent Evans.”

Evans turned to find one of the lab techs approaching. He was holding a jar like those that had been found in the basement. In it was another model of a set of teeth.

“We found this. Ted Balske thought you’d like to know.”

“Where was it?”

“Hidden in the rear of Loomis’s van under a blanket.”

Evans and Sparks took a close look at the model.

“How many of these models do we have now?” Evans asked the forensic expert.

“There were four in the basement. This makes five.”

“Thanks.”

The forensic expert left to log in the model, and Evans frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Sparks asked.

“Loomis made models of the teeth of his victims for trophies.”

“Right. That’s where the PVS comes in.”

“There should be six sets of teeth, but there are only five.”

“You’re right,” Sparks said. She looked as troubled as did Evans.

“The medical examiner didn’t find any PVS in Walsh’s mouth,” Evans said. “What if none of the false teeth match Walsh?”

“What are you getting at?” Sparks asked, afraid she knew what Keith was going to say.

“We could have a copycat murder. Someone who killed Walsh then faked the Ripper’s MO. Think about it. We just figured out what the substance in the victim’s mouths is, so Walsh’s killer wouldn’t know how to fake that part of Loomis’s MO. And there’s no way he could plant a set of false teeth in Loomis’s basement because we just figured out that he’s the Ripper. We have to find out if the dental work matches every victim except Walsh.”

“The MO for Walsh’s murder was almost identical to the MO Loomis used when he killed the other victims, including evidence we held back from the press and the public,” Sparks said. “The copycat would have to have access to the case file.”

“A federal agency would have access,” Evans said, “and some federal agencies employ people who can sanitize the scene of a shooting.”

“You’re talking about Cutler’s apartment.”

Evans nodded.

“You’re beginning to sound like a Web site for conspiracy nuts.”

“I am, but sometimes there really are conspiracies. While I’m talking to Eric Loomis, why don’t you see if you can find a police report detailing what happened at Cutler’s apartment?”

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.