Eye of the Beholder (3 page)

His stomach was swimming, but he had to keep his composure. This was his case. Everyone would follow his lead. He nodded to Lightner, who was on his way to the garage. He was going to wait for Riley before heading back to the station, but the instructions had been clear enough to the uniforms taking Burgos into custody: No one talked to Terry Burgos until Riley said so.

Riley followed the path of rocks up to the house. The yard had been neglected, brown spots littering the dry lawn. The screen door, which had seen better days, had been removed by one of the cops, leaving the front door, which was propped open by a rock from the front steps.

The interior of the house on the main floor was relatively undisturbed. Some antique furniture, dilapidated tile flooring, a fairly well-kept, humble presentation.

Riley held his breath and took the carpeted basement stairs down, nonetheless noticing the smell first. To the untrained nose, it smelled like sewage more than anything else. Most people, when murdered, lose control of bowel functions and soil themselves. There were no bodies down here, but Lightner had said there was no doubt that the murders happened in the basement.

He was right.

The basement was not furnished, a concrete floor with a small workout area, with a weight bench and a barbell with modest weights gathering cobwebs. A dartboard hung precariously on one wall next to a target for a BB gun. The room as a whole was probably poorly lit, but the police had installed high-powered lighting, leaving the technicians to work in an odd glow.

Riley turned to the back of the basement, where Burgos had a small workshop—a power saw and some hand tools and saw-horses. The floor was spotted and dirty. Bloodstains, most likely that Burgos had attempted to wipe clean. A number of technicians were gathering hairs with tweezers, placing other items in paper evidence bags near the workshop area, where it appeared the murders had occurred.

Riley walked up to the small workbench and sucked in his breath. Resting on the bench was an ordinary kitchen knife, a good five- or six-inch blade, covered with dried blood and other particulate. The first two victims, Elisha Danzinger and an unidentified girl, had been treated to that weapon. Next to the knife was a handsaw, its blade similarly covered in blood, other bodily fluids, and what appeared to be bone. That was the weapon he’d used to dismember the fourth victim.

A freestanding bathtub rested in one corner, looking like something plucked from a garbage dump, with significant corrosion inside. Riley had no doubt that this was where Burgos had scalded the one victim with acid. Sitting on top of a nearby washing machine was a car battery and a glass vial.

Four down, two to go.

Riley already knew that upstairs, in the master bathroom, police had found hairs in the drain of the bathtub, which was presumably where one of the victims had been drowned. And in the garage, they had uncovered a single bullet and a .32-caliber handgun—presumably the gun used to shoot Cassie Bentley through the back of the mouth, either before or after Burgos had beaten her almost beyond recognition.

That covered them all. The guy hadn’t gone to great lengths—
any
lengths—to cover this up. He’d left the murder weapons in full view. He’d left trace evidence of the victims in his basement, car, and garage. He’d left the victims’ identification-purses, driver’s licenses, clothes—in a garbage bag in his bedroom. Yes, he’d confined the murders to his property, or so it appeared at first blush, but otherwise Terry Burgos had made little attempt to clean up or discard his weapons.

On the workbench, resting next to the knife and handsaw, was a King James Bible, with bloody fingerprints along the pages. A single sheet of paper, tacked to the poster board on the wall behind the workbench, listed a number of passages from the Bible, chapter and verse. He leaned over the bench to get a close look at the sheet, which was written in red ballpoint pen. At the top, set apart, was a verse from Jeremiah 48:10:

Beneath this verse, descending down the page with numbers next to them, were other biblical passages, by citation only:

1.
Hosea 13:4-8

2.
Romans 1:24-32

3.
Leviticus 21:9

4.
Exodus 21:22-25

5.
2 Kings 2:23-24

6.
Deuteronomy 22:20-21

In the last of the six citations, a reference to Leviticus had been scratched out in favor of a passage from Deuteronomy. The edit had been done with a thin black Magic Marker.

Riley let out his breath. Six girls dead, six verses from the Bible.

Okay. Enough. The crime scene wasn’t his specialty, he’d just wanted a taste. Riley appreciated the fresh air when he stepped outside again. He found Lightner near the garage. Lightner’s body language suggested a fully charged cop working the biggest case of his career, but his eyes showed something dark and evil. They had just seen two gruesome crime scenes. Now it was time to connect them.

“Let’s go get a confession,” Riley said to him.

 

 

P
AUL RILEY nursed a cup of water and watched the suspect through a one-way mirror in the observation room. You learned more from your eyes than you ever did from your ears. Innocent people were nervous in custody. Guilty people often weren’t.

Terry Burgos was sitting alone in an interrogation room, wearing headphones he’d been allowed to bring, moving his head and tapping his foot to the beat, sometimes playing drums on the small table in front of him. The guy looked the Mediterranean part, short, beefy in the chest and torso, dark around the eyes, lots of thick, curly dark hair. Had a baseball cap pulled down and appeared to be humming to himself. He had drunk two cans of Coca-Cola and gone to the bathroom once. Had not requested a lawyer and had not received
Miranda
warnings.

Burgos had sat idle in the room for over an hour. Riley had wanted time for the police to gather whatever information they could before questioning the suspect. That, and he wanted Burgos hungry for lunch. Riley had hoped for more time, but there was no way anyone was letting go of Burgos, and there was only so long you could hold someone and keep lawyers away. Everyone, soon enough, was going to know about Terry Burgos, and it wouldn’t take long for an attorney of some kind or another to be knocking on the door.

Various cops and prosecutors came in and out of the observation room, peering in on the suspect with morbid curiosity. There was a palpable intensity in the police station because they knew they had their man, and it was the biggest thing this town had ever seen.

Burgos did not have a clean sheet. Two years earlier, he’d been arrested on suspicion of battery of a young woman, but it ended in a
nolle prosequi,
meaning the charges were dropped. Paul assumed the woman had failed to show for the hearing. Last year, he had been charged with sexual assault, but the case had been pleaded down to a misdemeanor battery, and he hadn’t done any time.

Elisha Danzinger had gone to the police to swear out a complaint against Terry Burgos in November of the previous year, 1988. She had alleged that Burgos, at the time a part-time handyman at Mansbury, had been following her around the campus, making threatening comments and generally making her feel uncomfortable. The police had brought Burgos in but hadn’t charged him. There was nothing on which they
could
charge him. Paul knew, from the Mansbury staff, that this past January Ellie had gotten an order of protection against Burgos, a civil action not contained in the police file, which had prohibited Burgos from coming within five hundred feet of her.

Burgos was age thirty-six, lived alone, and had worked two jobs. The first was a part-timer for Mansbury until he was fired this February, primarily landscaping but occasional cleaning assignments as well. For his second job, which he still held, he worked in an off-campus printing company owned by Mansbury College professor Frankfort Albany.

Terry Burgos, by all accounts, was moderately intelligent, if undereducated, and introverted; didn’t get an A plus for hygiene; didn’t complain much; and seemed generally indifferent to life. The unconfirmed word was he’d had a difficult childhood growing up in Marion Park, spousal abuse charges between his parents, and very poor school performance, ending short of a high school diploma.

Joel Lightner was standing next to Paul, watching through the one-way as Burgos jammed to his music. Lightner was bouncing on his toes, like a pitcher in the bull pen who was about to get the tap on the arm from the coach. “When do we start?” he asked.

“Do we have the photos?” Riley asked.

He nodded, handed Riley a file.

There was no reason to wait much longer. Unless Burgos’s nerves had completely overtaken him, which Riley doubted from looking at him, Burgos was probably hungry. Things like withholding food were bases for a defense attorney to argue coercion.

Riley sighed and stretched his arms. “You up for this, Detective?”

Lightner nodded efficiently. “Marion Park’s not Mayberry, Paul. I’m no virgin.”

That was true enough. Marion Park, a nearby suburb, didn’t have the city’s crime, but at least one prominent gang, the Columbus Street Cannibals, had begun to have a presence down there.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not open to suggestions.”

“Okay” Paul looked through the one-way mirror again. “Hands off, first of all.”

“Only way I do it.”

“Let’s make it a courtesy, for starters. Don’t let him leave, obviously, but tell him he can. See if he tries.”

“We’ll do lunch,” he suggested. Riley’s thought exactly. A conversation over lunch was more casual. So they were on the same page. It was standard practice for detectives to interrogate suspects, not ACAs. Paul could overrule that and take it himself, but then he’d be a witness and disqualified from prosecuting the case. There were some other ACAs floating about right now, guys Paul had summoned from the city, including the chiefs of the criminal prosecutions and special prosecutions bureaus. But Paul made the call, right there, that Joel Lightner would get first crack. He had caught the case and it was his. Besides, if they were right about this guy, he wasn’t going anywhere, whether he confessed or not.

“Record it,” Riley said, as Lightner walked out of the observation room. Paul brought in the bureau chiefs, plus Chief Clark and three other of his detectives. All of these people could verify anything that the tape recording couldn’t. Riley also wanted to hear their thoughts on the progress made so far.

They all watched, in silence, through the one-way mirror. Terry Burgos was quietly bopping along to the music from his headphones. He didn’t even look up as Joel Lightner entered the room, carrying a tape recorder. Lightner placed it down on the small wooden table and extended the cord to the wall socket. Only when he felt the vibration of the recorder hitting the table did the suspect take notice.

Lightner took a seat opposite Burgos and gestured with his hands that he should remove the headphones. Burgos fumbled with the player, finally turned it off, and removed the tiny speakers from his ears.

“Appreciate you coming down, Mr. Burgos. Do you mind if I record this conversation?”

Burgos looked over the detective, in rolled-up shirtsleeves. Joel placed his finger on the RECORD button. “The time is 1:25 P.M. on Monday, June 26, 1989. My name is Detective Joel Lightner, chief of detectives for the Marion Park Police Department. I’m sitting with Terrance Demetrius Burgos. Mr. Burgos, do I have your permission to tape-record this conversation?”

The suspect continued to look him over, then gave a halfhearted shrug.

“Can you answer out loud, Mr. Burgos?”

“Okay,” he said. He spoke quietly, hesitantly.

“Okay, I can tape-record our talk?”

“Okay” He smoothed his hands over the table. “Got any more Coke?”

“You want a Coke? No problem.” He went to the door and issued the request. “You’re probably hungry, too, aren’t you? Missed lunch.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you feel like?”

He didn’t answer. Maybe he took the question more literally.

“A burger and fries?” Joel asked. “A sub?”

Burgos looked at Joel. “I like tacos.”

“Tacos? Great. I know a place.” He spoke again to the officer outside the door. Then he returned to the table, settled back into his chair. Lightner’s way was laid-back, slouching and crossing a leg. Some guys didn’t have the natural ease about them, try as they might, and came off looking like someone who was trying too
hard
to look at ease. Joel, he had it, Riley could already see. “I want to thank you for coming down here. I want you to understand, Mr. Burgos, that you’re here as a courtesy. You can leave if you want to. Okay?”

The suspect shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“Good,” Paul said aloud. Joel had been to school. He had told the suspect he was free to leave, which meant Burgos technically was not in custody and
Miranda
warnings were not required. But Joel had made sure to offer the guy a meal on the house before mentioning he was free to go. Now Joel could have a nice, casual chat without ever mentioning the word
lawyer.
Terry Burgos was about to learn that there was no such thing as a free lunch.

“What-cha been doing this morning, Terry?”

The suspect shrugged. “Not much.”

“Listen to the radio at all?”

“I listened to my music.”

“You haven’t listened to the radio today?”

“Nah.”

“What about TV? Watch any television today?”

“Nope.”

“Have you spoken to anyone today? Neighbors? Anyone?”