Fraley slid a piece of paper across the desk towards me. At the top was a black-and-white photograph of the girl on the bench, eye patch and all. Alisha Elizabeth Davis, born April eleventh, 1989, one hundred and fifteen pounds, red hair, blue eyes, last seen on the morning of September twenty-eighth.
“I’ve got a couple of guys talking to her foster parents now,” Fraley said.
“Jesus, this gets stranger by the minute.”
“So, what do you suggest we do next, counselor? Can we get arrest warrants or search warrants based solely on the word of somebody who claims to be a psychic, especially one who’s listed as missing?”
“I guess we could put twenty-four-hour-a-day surveillance on them,” I said. “Wait and see where it leads us, but I’d hate to take a chance on someone else getting killed while we’re waiting. I’d also hate to take a chance on somebody screwing up and them finding out we’re onto them.”
“Why don’t we just pick them up?” Fraley said. “Simultaneously. We bring them back here, make sure they see each other, but keep them isolated. We play them off of each other.”
“And what if they refuse to talk to us? What if they say they don’t want to come?”
“Is what you got from the girl enough to detain them?”
“I don’t know. It’s a close call.”
“But what if she turns out to be right?”
“We have to have probable cause to arrest them, but all we need is reasonable suspicion to detain them. I just don’t know if the word of someone who says she’s psychic is enough, especially since she vanished. Not much legal precedent in that area. If we pick them up and somebody confesses, we risk losing everything on a motion to suppress later.”
“No judge in his right mind would turn these bastards loose if they turn out to be the killers,” Fraley said. “I don’t give a damn what the legalities are.”
I sat back to think it through, trying to imagine the argument in front of a judge later on. We’d had six horrific murders within a three-week period and had enough similarities to reasonably believe the murders were connected. We’d received an unsolicited drawing from an anonymous source that very accurately depicted the second murder scene. We’d followed up on the drawing and located the witness, who said she knew who committed the murders but left before she told us how she knew. She gave us her name and the names of the killers. One of the names she provided was at least indirectly connected to Norman Brockwell. We had another witness who said she saw two Goths getting out of the Becks’ van, and both of our suspects had recently died their hair black, at least indicating the possibility that they might be Goths. Both of them had criminal records, including violence. The witness also told us the killers would strike again. We assessed the risk to the public and, in good faith, decided to act.
“The biggest problem I have is that there isn’t a good-faith exception to the warrant requirement in Tennessee.”
“Say again?” Fraley said. “In English?”
“You have to have probable cause to get a warrant, right?”
“Right.”
“There have been federal cases and cases in other states where judges have ruled that the police lacked probable cause for an arrest, but because they acted in good faith, they upheld the legality of the arrest. It’s called the good-faith exception. Tennessee doesn’t recognize it.”
“Maybe it’s time they did,” Fraley said.
“You’re right,” I said. “This may be the test case. You start getting your people together to coordinate the arrests and the searches and I’ll go draft the warrants. See if you can get some lab people to come in early in case we need them. Which judge is the easiest when it comes to getting warrants signed?”
“Judge Rogers, especially after he’s been home long enough to start drinking. He’ll sign anything.”
“Then Rogers it is. We’ll pick both of them up, search their homes, cars, whatever. Let’s put the screws to them.”
There were only thirteen Tennessee Bureau of Investigation agents assigned to the criminal field investigation unit in all of northeast Tennessee. Those thirteen agents covered twenty-one counties and eight judicial districts. Ten of them had been assigned temporarily to our murder cases, with Fraley at the point.
I was amazed at how quickly they’d been able to mobilize the agents, and once they were all up and running, it was mind-boggling to see how much information they could gather and how quickly they could gather it. We’d identified two suspects at around ten a.m. Fourteen hours later, computers had helped the agents gather information from the National Crime Information Center, local crime databases, local government databases, juvenile authorities, probation departments, and schools. I knew that as soon as the suspects were arrested, most of the agents would head back out to execute the search warrants. They’d talk to parents, relatives, friends, acquaintances, employers-anyone who could provide them with information. It almost made me uneasy to see firsthand how quickly-and how deeply-the government could delve into an individual’s life. What made me more uneasy was that all of this was occurring based on the word of a witness who might be crazy, lying, or just plain wrong.
It was almost eleven o’clock by the time I finished drafting the applications and affidavits required to secure the arrest and search warrants. I called Judge Rogers at home. He agreed to let me come over, and I found him sipping on a vodka martini in his den. The martini obviously wasn’t the judge’s first of the evening. It took me all of five minutes to convince him to sign the warrants. As soon as I left, I called Fraley.
Since I’d stayed in touch with Fraley by phone, I knew that as soon as I left his office that afternoon he’d ordered immediate, full-time surveillance on the homes-or at least the last known addresses-of our two suspects. None of the agents assigned to the surveillance had seen a thing until almost ten p.m., when a banged-up green Chevrolet Cavalier rolled into the driveway at the address the computers provided for Samuel Boyer. The license plate was registered to Boyer. The agents reported that there were two passengers in the car. It parked in the driveway, the engine remained running and the lights stayed on, and what appeared to be a male got out and went into the house. The agents couldn’t make a positive identification because the person was wearing heavy makeup. He was also wearing Goth clothing. The male stayed inside the house for only a couple of minutes and got back in the car. The agents followed the car to a cheap motel on the western outskirts of Johnson City, a place called the Lost Weekend. The suspects were still there.
After the judge signed my warrants, Fraley told me to meet him in the parking lot of a Burger King a couple of blocks from the motel. He flashed his headlights at me as I pulled into the lot, and I pulled in beside him about fifteen minutes before midnight. I locked up my truck and sat down in the passenger seat of his Crown Victoria, warrants in hand.
“It’s too early in the year for it to be this cold,” I said as I closed the door and shivered involuntarily.
“I already talked to the owner of the motel,” Fraley said, ignoring the comment. “Boyer checked in under his own name. Doesn’t seem to be trying to hide anything.”
Fraley spit loudly into a Styrofoam cup. A pungent wintergreen odor filled the car, and I noticed his bottom lip was sticking out as though he’d been punched in the mouth.
“That shit’ll rot your teeth,” I said.
“Been dipping off and on for forty years,” he said. “They ain’t rotten yet.”
“Did the owner make a positive ID?”
“He couldn’t tell from the photo I showed him. He says they always wear makeup.”
“Always?”
“The guy says they’ve rented a room a couple of times before in the past few months. Says they’re weird as hell, but they haven’t done any damage.”
“Do the dates coincide with the other murders?”
“Don’t know. He said they pay cash, and he doesn’t keep records of cash transactions. It’s not exactly the Ritz.”
“Where’s the owner now?” I was wondering whether he might be loyal enough to his cash-paying customers to alert them that the police were making inquiries. Fraley gave me a sideways glance.
“You really think I’m stupid enough to leave him alone?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry,” I said.
