Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

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?”