Strangled - Brian McGrory [146]
It was odd, having a cop plead with me like this, turn to me as the ultimate arbiter, understanding the odd power that the Record held on this most bizarre of stories.
I said, “Detective Foley, they found Elizabeth Riggs’s purse crammed away in your neighbor’s trash can. Are you going to say this was a plant?”
He shot me a look of surprise, and then the heat faded from his eyes as he slowly gazed up and down the darkened glass, then at the tile floor in front of him, and finally at the backs of his hands.
“Whatever they’re going to say that I did, I didn’t. Please, you’ve got to trust me on that.”
He didn’t answer my question. It’s also worth noting that his line of argument was painstakingly selected. He wasn’t denying having done anything wrong, only denying doing what they were going to say he had done. It was interesting, if slightly confusing. Though maybe not.
“What are they going to say you’ve done?” I asked.
The question came out perhaps a little louder than I had intended, more aggressive than I might have meant, but truth be told, it was how I felt. Yeah, my gut told me that Boston Police Detective Mac Foley wasn’t one of the bad guys in this case. And maybe some oblique part of my mind told me the same thing. But the facts didn’t speak particularly well for him at the moment, and thus, neither would I.
“It’s a setup, Jack. They’re making me a scapegoat. They’re trying to do to me what they did to Albert DeSalvo forty years ago — pin the whole thing on someone, make all the unpleasant facts go away, and then ride it all to whatever victories they’re chasing.”
I asked, “Did you kill Jill Dawson or Lauren Hutchens or Kimberly May?” Their names rolled off my tongue like those of old friends.
He was standing now, pacing the short part of the room by the door.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” he said, though he said this while staring down at his shoes.
“Did you steal Elizabeth Riggs’s license?”
Silence. He continued to pace. He looked up at me and said, “You need to talk to Paul Vasco. Have you talked to Paul Vasco?”
“Last week,” I said, the words encased in anger as they slipped out of my mouth. I added, “You didn’t answer my question. Did you steal Elizabeth Riggs’s license?”
Abruptly, he slapped his fist against the back of his chair, sending it toppling over.
“You’re asking the wrong questions.” He yelled this more than he said it, his voice bouncing off the hard walls and glass and ricocheting around the room. “You’re asking the wrong fucking questions of the wrong fucking people.”
“Did you steal Elizabeth Riggs’s license?”
He plunked himself down in the next chair over from mine. He looked me hard in the eye. “Jack, I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve got to talk to Vasco again. You’ve got to tell him that I’m at risk of being charged. You’ve got to get to the bottom of this story, the killings now, the killings then.”
His voice was growing panicked now, his eyes turning wild. “Please, Jack, talk to Vasco. Please.”
There was a firm knock on the door, and then it pushed open. Sergeant Ralph Akin looked at Foley and said, “The brass is back. They’re coming down to see you in a minute. I’ve got to get you back into lockup. Fast.”
Foley hung his head in defeat. I asked him, “Were we on the record here?” Granted, it was a little late to be asking the question, but better then than never.
He was shuffling toward the door, his face still aimed at the floor. “We’re whatever you want us to be,” he said, his tone deflated.
At the door, he turned around and looked at me and said, “But Jack, before you destroy my life, before you ruin what’s left of my career, before you destroy my wife, my daughter, my whole reputation, please put it to Paul Vasco. Do it for me, do it for yourself. Do it for all those people, Jack, the hundreds of people whose lives have been ruined by the Boston Strangler.
“Please, Jack.”
It was then that Ralph Akin grabbed his elbow and pulled him out