Brian Lane - Mind Games with a Serial Killer

Here are some questions to ask yourself:

Why did he lie about his prison term in Texas when he knew darn well that the Riverside cops would find out all about it any minute?

When Bill admitted to “finding” Casares’ body, to taking her clothes, to removing the knife from her chest, did he really think they’d believe him? Does he think any of us believe him now, as he still maintains this preposterous story?

The central core to Bill’s defense is that he had hidden the fact that he was an ex-con, hidden it from friends, family, employer, lest they desert him, so he panicked when he “found” the body. He knew that evil cops try to frame ex-cons just because ex-cons are ex-cons and therefore disposable, and desperate cops become evil cops out of desperation, and these Riverside cops were long desperate and now turning evil.

However, the essence of what I see in all Bill’s answers is that, despite Detective Keers’ misguided “Murder, She Wrote” belief that Bill wanted to get caught and confess and unburden himself, in fact Bill never ever thought he would be singled out and accused . He knew he was innocent under the law . He was dead solid certain he’d gotten away with murder—he’d left no clues—and so he was stunned when they hauled his ass down to the station and turned on the spotlight. If he could just give them a few glib answers, then they’d have to let him go. Better to say something than nothing, because dummying up would look like covering up. The cops were all bluff and bluster—give them their due and maybe they’d cease

their inquiries. Worse come to worst, there was still no hard evidence, there was only gut-level suspicion.

On this basis, even including his lies about his Texas past, don’t you have to conclude that all Bill’s responses are consistent with the attitude of someone who believes in his own innocence? Like the cops, we read guilt into Bill’s responses because we’ve already judged him guilty, but, is his approach to his defense, his take on the truth, really any different than was my own when I was fingered by Officer Tucker? Guilty or innocent, doesn’t the instinct for survival cause absolutely everyone to hesitate and fudge and try to find a way out of the hot seat? And, when personal morality and legal morality diverge, is there any way to get at objective truth through a directive interrogation? When you tell someone you know he did something even though you can’t prove it, how does he change your mind? You can’t prove and he can’t disprove—it’s a stalemate, but it’s actually a loss for personal freedom.

Some years ago I went to Europe on lawful legal business, depositing money in a Swiss bank account for an actor-client. When I returned I went through Customs at LAX, stepping into the “Nothing to Declare” queue. The Customs Agent eyed my “Nothing to Declare” card and immediately waved me off to the side where three armed agents escorted me to a windowless cinder-block room. There I was ordered to strip down to my underwear.

I had nothing to hide but I nonetheless knew I was in trouble and I had no idea why. I couldn’t keep Midnight Express out of my mind.

Suddenly the lead agent pointed to the gold neck chain and gold hockey puck medallion I wear under my clothes for luck. “Why didn’t you declare that?” he demanded.

“Because I’ve had it for ten years and I bought it here in L.A.,” I replied.

“Prove it,” he said.

“It’s listed on my insurance policy from before I went on this trip to Europe. And the jeweler that made the puck is in Beverly Hills and can verify whatever you need to know,” I said.

“I don’t believe you,” said the customs agent. “I believe you bought this in Europe just now and you were trying to sneak it in without paying duty.”

“This is crazy—look at it—the puck’s dirty and worn down, the chain’s old and worn and welded—look right here.” I illustrated my points.

“I’m going to have to confiscate that,” said the agent. “It’s your legal obligation to have paperwork proof of origin on your person at the time you pass through Customs.”

“I’m supposed to carry around insurance policies and old purchase receipts for everything I take on a trip with me?”

“That’s the law,” he said. “I’ll need to confiscate that now. If you really do have the appropriate paperwork you can come back with it tomorrow and go to our main office.”

“And I’ll get my jewelry back?”

“Probably,” he said. “But not for certain. It will be up to the agent there to decide.”

“And my recourse?”

“You can go to court. But we resell confiscated items fairly quickly, and once they’re in the system they’re hard to track down.”

“And I have no other option?” I suspected there was an ulterior motive here, and I was right.

“You can pay duty right now and be on your way with your jewelry,” said the agent.

In other words, this clown was working some sort of quota—he needed to collect a certain amount of money each month or his boss would think he wasn’t doing his job. Or maybe he and his pals just pocketed this as a “bonus”.

“How much?” I asked.

“First you need to sign this new declaration,” he said.

It wasn’t so much a declaration as a false confession.

I signed. And then I paid $1,200 as duty and penalty. And I got to keep my nondutiable stuff. And somehow I felt relieved, relieved just to get out of there without a body cavity search or an arrest. Innocence was not the issue. Escape was everything. Survival put pucks and business trips all in perspective.

Later a law school chum of mine went to work for Customs. He learned that LAX Customs targets that particular London-LAX flight for middle- to upper-class travelers who routinely “smuggle” in costly goods without paying duty. Every eighth person in line gets dragged to the cinder-block room. You don’t need to fit any profile, you just need to be number eight in line. Then they make a big show of taking you away, so the seven people who escape will think twice the next time about what they do or do not declare. Random terror replaces real investigative deduction, extortion is accepted in lieu of legitimate legal enforcement, and revenues beget pay raises for the agents involved.

Your government at work, ladies and gentlemen.

Proving that authority obscures rather than encourages truth. I now have a false confession on file with the U.S. Customs Service. I’ve admitted to smuggling that I didn’t do. And I would have demanded credit for kidnapping the Lindbergh baby or admitted that I was O.J.’s accomplice if that would have gotten me out of that cinder-block room. When an animal gets caught in the headlights, it doesn’t run, it freezes.

When Bill Suff was arrested, he froze, stunned, and with good reason—he knew the cops had nothing on him. His arrest was unlawful, and his subsequent interrogation became a travesty. It ended, as you read, with Keers screaming “You did it!” and Bill shouting “I did not!” back and forth at one another, his vast arrogance incredibly one-upped by hers. In between, exhausted though he was, Bill kept asking for a lawyer, to no avail.

Desperate cops. Desperate situation. The cops were determined to stop the killing and they believed Bill was their man. But they broke the rules just as much as he and then justified it by insisting that what they did was okay because they were the good guys. Might made right and right made might.

But what if they were wrong about Bill? The crimes were awfully close to perfect—in the end, only the tire tracks gave Bill away. Keers knew she needed a confession to make the case—hell, she needed a confession even to justify a search—but Bill wouldn’t confess. None of his admissions ever amounted to an “Okay, you got me, I did it”. In the face of insistent accusation, he always maintained his innocence and always explained away the evidence and the theories against him.