The Informant (33 page)
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THE INFORMANT
at sea, part of it was the present circumstances. His eyes were growing heavy now, and he was fighting sleep.
“You ever heard of Ted Bundy, Captain?”
He stirred from his state of semi-sleep. His lips smacked, but he said nothing. The waves gently splashed against the starboard side.
“Hey,” Hannon snapped. “I’m talking to you. I said: Ever heard of Ted Bundy?”
The captain licked the sea salt from his shriveled old lips. “Yeah. I heard of him. The killer.”
Hannon smiled to himself, more like a condescending smirk. “That’s a real test of fame, isn’t it? Some ignorant old fart floating around the world in a sailboat knows who you are.” He shook his head in amazement, then glanced back. “How many people you suppose a guy has to kill to get that famous?”
The captain shrugged without interest. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Come on. Ten? Twenty?”
“I said I didn’t know.”
Hannon ignored his surly tone. “I see it this way. Bundy was like the first guy to break the four-minute mile. The world was in awe. Everybody knew his name—until faster runners came along, and people expected more. You remember the name of the first guy to run a four-minute mile?”
The captain shook his head.
“Of course you don’t. Nowadays, he’s no more famous than the
last
guy to run a four-minute mile. So tell me, Captain. What does a guy have to do
these days
to be as famous as Ted Bundy? Is it a numbers game, or do you get points for originality?”
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The old man narrowed his eyes, seemingly building up courage. “A murderer gets famous the same way as always, I suppose.”
“How’s that?”
“By getting caught.”
Hannon shot him a glance, then looked off in the distance. The lights of a cruise ship shined on the horizon.
Several minutes passed, then he pointed with a nod.
“That’s a pretty sight, isn’t it. A cruise ship at night.”
The captain turned his head to look. His eyes brightened, like the Bird Man of Alcatraz peering out at freedom.
“Makes you wish you were on it, doesn’t it?” Hannon taunted.
The captain looked away.
Hannon let the silence linger. “I was on one once. A cruise ship, I mean. Raped a girl, right in her cabin.”
The captain bristled, then scowled. “I wish they’d caught you.”
“They did. Thanks to some snitch who talked to a reporter. Didn’t even have the guts to give him a name.”
His expression turned serious as he gave the captain a steely glare. “Someday I’ll find out who it was.”
“Hey, don’t take it out on me. I ain’t never even been on a cruise ship.”
“Don’t shit your pants, okay?” Hannon said. He forced himself to calm down. “I know it wasn’t you. You’re not on the list.”
The wind kicked up, then died. The sails luffed in the shifting breeze. Hannon pushed the tiller toward port, until the sails filled again.
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“What do you mean, a list?” asked the captain.
“A list of passengers who might have been the snitch.
I narrowed it down to thirty-seven people. John Wayne Gacy killed thirty-three. Puts me ahead of him.”
“You’re just gonna kill thirty-seven people?”
Hannon’s face was deadpan. “I don’t just kill them. I rip their tongues out.”
The captain cringed, withdrawing as far into the corner as the ropes would let him go.
“Don’t be so squeamish. It’s not like it’s gratuitous violence. It’s just the most fitting way I know of to get a rat to admit he—or
she
—is a rat.”
“Seems more like a way to get people to confess whatever you want them to confess.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t just say, ‘Were you the person who ratted on me?’ I asked specifics. Like, what time was it? What color shirt was I wearing? Which way did I turn? Only the real McCoy would know the answer to those questions.”
The sails luffed in the shifting breeze. The captain looked at him curiously, as if he weren’t quite sure Hannon was for real. The mainsail was beginning to flap like a bedsheet in the breeze. “You need to tack,” he said finally.
Hannon used his foot to steer, taking the jib sheet in one hand and the main sheet in the other. “Helm’s away,”
he said, pushing it away with his foot. The captain ducked as the boom swung overhead. The boat rocked from starboard to port as it came about. Hannon found the wind, then tightened the sheets. He smiled with satisfaction as the boat settled into its new tack.
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The troubled look returned to the captain’s face. “You ain’t really killed all those people, have you? You just yankin’ my chain with all that tongue stuff, right?”
Hannon stared without expression, then smiled like a drinking buddy. “You’re too smart for me, Captain.”
The old man sighed with relief.
“But I did rape that girl.”
Their eyes locked, as if the captain were trying to discern whether it was true. “What you do that for?”
“Why’d I rape her? Complicated question. You ever heard of Marfan’s syndrome?”
His brow furrowed. “No.”
“You’re looking at it.”
He swallowed hard.
“Would you like a closer look?”
“No,” his voice shook.
“Liar. You’d
love
a closer look. You’re just afraid. That’s the way people are. The happiest people in the world aren’t looking at life through rose-colored glasses. They’re peering into their neighbor’s bedroom with telescopes and binoculars.”
“Not me. That’s why I’m on the ocean. I couldn’t give a shit about other people.”
Hannon nodded. “You’re all right, Captain. There’s hope for you yet.”
His eyes flickered. “Does that mean you’ll let me go?”
“Of course I’m gonna let you go.”
The captain smiled awkwardly. “Really?”
“Really. In fact, I’ll let you off right here.” In two quick steps he was across the cockpit. He took the fish 329
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filet knife from his pocket and cut the rope around the captain’s waist. He grabbed the captain by the shirt collar, then yanked him to his feet. “Come on, old man. It’s time to go.”
His hands were still tied behind his back. His nervous smile faded. His lips quivered with fear. “Why you want to hurt an old man in the middle of the ocean? I’m no snitch. I just mind my own business. I won’t tell anyone I even met you.”
“There’s really only one way to make sure of that, isn’t there.”
“Please. We’re still twenty miles from shore. I’ll drown.”
Hannon grabbed the man’s shoulder, turned him around, and quickly cut his hands free. The captain rubbed his wrists. He was almost giddy at the thought of going free, but gasping with fear. “We’re still too far out.
I can’t swim this. I’ll drown, I tell you.”
Hannon clutched the knife. With a quick slash he opened a deep, long flesh wound down the length of each of the captain’s arms. Blood immediately ran from the old man’s shoulders to his wrists.
The captain cried out, though the blade was so sharp it was more shocking than painful. “What—what’d you do
that
for!”
Hannon was deadpan. “Now you won’t drown. The sharks will eat you.”
With a quick shove the man tumbled backward into the ocean, head over heels. He went under with a splash but came up quickly, bobbing with bloody arms flailing, coughing up salt water. The white sails caught the wind, sending the boat knifing through the waves.
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The captain’s desperate cries for mercy grew more faint and distant as the boat forged ahead.
Hannon glanced up at the stars, then out across the waves. The black ocean was deceptive, seemingly peaceful, but with so much activity hidden beneath the waves. With his foot on the tiller Hannon looked back in amusement, knowing that the crimson trail was as long and wide as the sailboat’s wake—and that nighttime was feeding time.
331
t
he stale smells of burned coffee and pipe tobacco lingered in the conference room as six tired agents pushed on through dawn. The buildings in Quantico were all no smoking, but Steve Caldwell seemed to bring the scent of Royal Copenhagen wherever he went. Mini-blinds on the east window slashed the early-morning sun into horizontal stripes. Files and transcripts covered every inch of Formica on the table, with empty Styrofoam cups scattered about. A pile of crumpled candy wrappers gathered at David Shapiro’s elbow. The diagram of the
Peninsular II
had a few more circles and arrows, reflecting the collective wisdom regarding which cabin might be Hannon’s next target. Jackets and ties lay draped over the backs of chairs. Caldwell was resting on the couch, still awake, sucking on his unlit pipe. The others were resting on their elbows, still hashing things out at the table.
Arnold Freeland ran a hand through his hair, perplexed.
“One question still tugs at me. If Hannon 332
James Grippando
wanted to know who the source was, why didn’t he just go to Posten the day he got out of jail, put a gun to his head and force it out of him?”
Caldwell, as usual, was the first to offer an answer. He rose from the couch, packing his pipe and pacing peripat-etically. “Too risky, Arnold. Picture it. He goes to Posten and demands the name of his source. Posten tells him, or doesn’t tell him—either way, Hannon has to kill him.
The murder comes right on the heels of Hannon’s release from prison. Hannon is the prime suspect, since Posten supplied the information that landed him in prison. His scheme never gets off the ground.”
Shapiro grimaced. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and flecks of a powdered-sugar doughnut dotted the tie hanging loosely around his neck. “That may be part of it, Steve. But I think the real reason Hannon hasn’t gone after Posten is that he accepts that Posten doesn’t know who his informant was.” He fumbled for a manila file in the mound of material on the table. “Wasn’t it reported in the press that Posten couldn’t verify his source?”
Freeland nodded. “Even if Posten did know the source, Hannon had to realize that no reporter would serve up his source on a platter to be slaughtered by a psychopath bent on revenge.”
“Those are all very logical explanations,” said Victoria.
“Which is why I think they’re all wrong.”
“What a surprise,” said Caldwell, his voice filled with sarcasm. “Why don’t you just write another memo to Assistant Director Dougherty?”
Her eyes were like lasers. “Much in the same way 333
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you enjoy insulting me, Steve, I think Hannon simply
enjoys
the killing. Every time he rips out somebody’s tongue, he’s experiencing the fantasy of finding his informant. That’s what drives psychopaths—the fantasy. Truth is, seldom does a serial killer direct his anger at the person he really resents.”
Shapiro sipped his cold coffee. “He was in prison for twelve years. That’s a long time for somebody to harbor resentment about an informant.”
“You have to consider the circumstances.”
“Oh, no,” Caldwell groaned. “I hear another lesson in pop psychology coming on.”
This time, Shapiro shot him a look. “Let me remind you, Steve: It was the pop psychologist who was right the last time.”
His teeth clenched his pipe, but he said nothing.
“Okay, Victoria,” said Shapiro. “What’s your fix on Hannon?”
She nodded at her boss with appreciation. “Let me just say straightaway that this isn’t just off the top of my head.
Yesterday in Miami I had a pretty in-depth conversation with the prosecutor who handled Hannon’s rape case, and he had some keen insights of his own.
“Anyway, I see Hannon as a handsome, personable man who women find attractive. He probably dated in college, but I doubt it ever led to sex. He had a physical deformity that made him the subject of teasing as a schoolboy. The same deformity made him paranoid about taking his clothes off with a woman he’d have to see again. He was convinced she’d make fun, tell everyone, embarrassing him. He tried intercourse only with 334
James Grippando
women he would never see again. He may have turned first to prostitutes. Then to rape—which gave him the power to have any woman he wanted, totally anonymously.
“His rape trial, though, stripped him of his anonymity in the worst way imaginable. The victim never got a look at his face. Basically, all she could say about her attacker was that he was a large white man with a remarkably small penis.
“The prosecutor couldn’t force Hannon to show his penis to the jury; it would be self-incrimination. But he did introduce into evidence Hannon’s medical records showing that he had Marfan’s syndrome as an adolescent.
It’s a disease that makes the bones grow fast, but it stunts the growth of the genitals. The end result is a tall man with a very small penis. For Hannon, it was bad enough being convicted. Even worse, however, the world suddenly knew his most humiliating secret.
“He spent twelve years in jail, searching his mind for someone to blame. He didn’t blame the victim; he’s the one who got
her
involved. The police were just doing their job, as were the judge, jury and prosecutor. Even the media was just doing what the media does. His anger focused on the one person who went out of her way to hurt him. She didn’t have to get involved. And if she hadn’t gotten involved, he never even would have been arrested in the first place. He blames the informant.”
Silence filled the room. Victoria scanned all eyes around the table, waiting for someone to poke holes. No one said a word.
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Finally, Caldwell sprung from the couch. “I
knew
I was right! There
is
an underlying sexual motivation for these murders.” He was pacing again, waving his pipe. “This is what I’ve been saying all along: Serial killers are psychopathic sexual sadists. Haven’t you heard me say this before, David?”
Shapiro glanced at Victoria and rolled his eyes, then looked back at Caldwell. “Siddown, Steven.”
Caldwell stopped in his tracks. Silence again lingered in the room, but it was more tense than expectant.