Every Move You Make (17 page)

As Horton began going through the inside of Evans’s tent, he uncovered all the basic necessities one might take on a camping trip: water, juice, food, shampoo and soap. Evans had kept several changes of clean clothes stacked neatly in one corner, a stack of books in the other. Among the many books was an old copy of
The Collected Works of Billy the Kid,
a few law enforcement handbooks, and
Criminal Investigation: Basic Perspectives
, a college-level textbook for wannabe cops.

Looking further, Horton found a few rolls of film and a camera.

“Take these down to the lab right away and get them developed,” he told one of the troopers.

CHAPTER 29

It had been two years since Evans and Horton had seen each other. The last time they spoke, Horton had told Evans he never wanted to see or hear from him again.

The purpose of any interrogation, most law enforcement textbooks preach, is to “secure a confession of guilt” from a suspect. The notion that someone could be innocent of a crime is not something interrogations are designed to reveal.

Whether it is a hostile—shine a light in the perpetrator’s face—type of interview, or a relaxed—“everything will be okay, we are here to help you”—situation, cops who have mastered the art view it the same way: “The better you know your subject, the more you will get out of him.”

For Horton, all he wanted out of Evans at this point was the answer to one question: where was Tim Rysedorph?

There was a major problem, however, and it occurred to Horton as he made his way down the long hallway and through the large steel doors that separated him from Evans: In no way could he discuss Tim Rysedorph, Michael Falco or Damien Cuomo, for that matter, with Evans. Studying case law, Horton realized that if Evans had in fact murdered all three men and wanted to admit to it, any tactic Horton now used to obtain those confessions would be scrutinized during trial later on.

“I couldn’t blow the case by being overly ambitious. I knew Gary would be lawyered-up within days.”

Evans was chained to the wall of his cell when Horton walked in.

In a friendly, mocking tone, Horton said, “Hey, you fuck, what’s going on? What did you do now?”

Evans, an embarrassed smile on his face, stuck his hand out, the chains hanging from his wrist clanking and echoing down the long corridor. “Can you believe this shit?” he said, looking at himself chained to the wall.

“What’d you do now, Gar?” Horton was both frustrated and excited to see Evans. “This was a guy,” he recalled later, “many of my colleagues told me I would never catch again—especially the way we did. So, some of it was gloating. But my main focus, from the first moment I saw him again, was to get him to give up Falco, Cuomo and, especially, Rysedorph. Before that day in Vermont, I had always viewed Gary as a thief I could perhaps change. But now I saw him as a murderer. Things were different, to say the least.”

A few minutes before Horton had seen Evans, he practiced the look and demeanor he was going to use once he got face-to-face with him. It had to be, he said, a “good to see an old friend” type of moment, “particularly for Gary. Any other way would jeopardize any future interviews I was going to do.”

Indeed, one wrong move on Horton’s part and Evans might decide not to talk to anyone. As it was, he had requested Horton, and only Horton. Which meant he
wanted
to talk.

“I was very nervous, thinking he would see right through me. Here we both were in a strange place (another state), under conditions as stressful to the both of us as they ever were. He is thinking about going back to jail forever. I need to get three bodies from him. There were a million things I could have said to blow it. In a way, that first meeting was phony; he knew I had been behind his capture and I was looking for Rysedorph, but neither of us would broach the subject. On the other hand, we were both, as strange as it may sound, glad to see each other.”

Evans was looking at twenty-five to life. He wasn’t going anywhere. Horton, however, decided he wanted to have a current photo of Evans to distribute just in case something happened and Evans ended up on the loose again. So he asked if he could take his photo.

“Sure, Guy, whatever you want,” Evans said.

Sitting chained to the wall, Evans looked up and smiled as Horton snapped his photo.

“Where ya been, Gar?” Horton asked, pulling the Polaroid from the bottom of the camera and setting it down to dry.

“We meet again!”

“We need to talk about what’s going on.”

“What’s this shit?” Evans asked, lifting up the chains again and rattling them. “Why they got me tied up like an animal, Guy?”

“Let me explain,” Horton said, pulling up a chair, taking a seat in front of him. “There’s a federal warrant for violation of probation out there for you. You weren’t supposed to leave the state of New York, Gar. You know how that shit works. You’re a wanted fugitive, for Chrissakes.”

The last state Evans should have been in was Vermont. The judge overseeing Evans’s last court case for the theft of a rare book of antique bird prints had warned Evans about ever setting foot in Vermont again, or committing any crimes in the state.

“Well…,” Evans began to explain.

“Let me finish. Jesus! Of all places, Gar. Why Vermont again? They want your balls here, man.” Evans shook his head in agreement. “We’ve also got a warrant for you in Albany for a pair of cuff links stolen from a shop in New Scotland.” Evans bowed his head. “You signed your name, Gar, when you pawned them. You gettin’ sloppy in your old age or what?”

“Holy fuck,” Evans said, looking directly into Horton’s eyes: “What is wrong with me, Guy? I must have been brain-dead on that one.”

The one item Horton had promised himself he wouldn’t mention was a warrant in Cold Spring, New York. Tim Rysedorph’s name was connected to it. He didn’t want the initial meeting to be negative right from the start. Thinking Evans had killed Tim, Horton didn’t want to bring up his name. He had to convince Evans he was going to be there for him, like he had been in the past.

“Here’s what we have to do, Gar. You can come back to New York…waive extradition…or fight it here. It’s going to take ninety days just to fight it, and you know as well as I do you’ll lose.”

Evans seemed to lighten up. He didn’t want to stay in Vermont; he had no one there. Once Horton went back to New York, Evans knew he was on his own. Additionally, any time Evans spent in jail in Vermont wouldn’t count against the time he was subsequently going to get down the road.

Horton got up from his chair, slid it back over near the table in the room and began walking toward the door. “Maybe I’ll see you in New York next week, Gar?”

Evans looked at him, but said nothing. His face, however, told Horton he would be screaming to go back to New York by the end of the night.

CHAPTER 30

The newspapers didn’t waste any time connecting the dots once word spread that Evans had been captured in Vermont. It had been rumored for years that Evans was responsible for the disappearances of Michael Falco and Damien Cuomo, and now sources inside the state police were telling reporters they were close to solving both cases. With Tim Rysedorph linked to Evans as a childhood friend and, later, what reporters and the Bureau were calling “a string of burglaries,” local media began competing to see who could come up with the most eye-catching headline.

The
Albany Times Union
kept it simple, but blunt:
FRIENDS VANISH
,
QUERIES LINGER
. The article was accompanied by a familiar photo of Evans, the subheadline a portent of things to come:
A career thief arrested this week will be questioned in the disappearances of 3 associates.

The pressure was on Horton to produce some sort of confession out of Evans. There wasn’t an article written that didn’t mention the relationship between Horton and Evans, or the fact that Evans had been the last person to see Tim alive. Horton had made a “courtesy” call to Caroline Parker, keeping her up to speed as to what was going on and the legal issues surrounding how the state police would go about questioning Evans. It involved more than just popping in and asking him where Falco, Cuomo and Rysedorph were, and what, if anything, he had done to them. The legalities were far more complicated than anything Horton had come across in his twenty years as a cop. When it came down to it, besides a bit of chatter among townspeople, there was no evidence linking Evans to any of the disappearances—and no bodies to prove that all three men had been murdered.

In the state of New York, when a warrant is issued against a suspect, counsel automatically attaches to the warrant and a virtual attorney, so to speak, is created. If cops have enough evidence against a suspect to issue a warrant, the court views that suspect as someone who is in desperate need of legal representation. And, more important, if there is enough evidence to issue the warrant in the first place, the court believes law enforcement shouldn’t be speaking to that person. Thus, this was the main obstacle preventing Horton from talking to Evans.

In order to be able to discuss matters of any significance with Evans, Horton had to rely on the notion that Evans wanted to get out of Vermont and waive his right to an attorney once he was extradited back to New York State.

By Monday, June 1, 1998, five days after Evans had been captured, word was that he wanted out of Vermont as soon as possible, but the only person he said he wanted to talk to about it was Horton.

In turn, Horton spoke to Evans over the phone and reiterated his prior advice: “Waive extradition.”

U.S. Marshals transported Evans back to Albany on Wednesday, June 3. He was placed in custody as a federal prisoner at Albany County Jail—a familiar place he had grown to hate, for obvious reasons, throughout the years. Because of the federal warrants standing against Evans, Horton, a state police officer, still couldn’t mention Falco, Cuomo or Rysedorph. Anything they discussed would have to be personal, and Horton was strongly encouraged to stay the hell away from him.

Within a day of Evans’s return, Evans called Horton at home, crying. “I need to see you, Guy,” he said.

“All right. I’ll be over there tomorrow.”

Horton set it up where he could meet with Evans in a small, empty consultation room, alone.

Evans was crying as two corrections officers sat him down in a chair next to Horton. The room was noisy, echoey, and cramped. The first thing Horton noticed was how docile and depressed Evans had become. It was quite the change from the cocky, upbeat attitude he espoused in Vermont. The last time Horton had spoken to him, Evans was enthusiastic about the future. He had talked about seeing his nephew, and mentioned a woman in Troy who, he said, had literally raised him.

“Her name is Jo. I think of her as my mother.”

But here he was now, unshaven and dirty. He hadn’t showered in days. Had he given up?

“You smell. Do you know that?” Horton said as Evans sat down.

“I can’t do this,” he said through tears, “I can’t be locked up anymore. I need to take a fresh-air ride…. I need to spend some time with you.” He was holding a piece of paper, twisting it, folding it, fidgeting with it.

“We
should
talk, Gar.”

“Yeah, yeah…I need to tell you—”

“No!” Horton said. “Don’t say anything just yet, Gar. There are a few legal matters we have to take care of first.”

Evans had let two of his fingernails grow unusually long, and had sharpened them into points.

“What’s up with that?” Horton asked.

Looking down, sticking out his hand, Evans began whimpering. Horton recalled later that Evans was “like a baby, crying and breathing heavily. I had never seen him like this.”

“With these,” Evans said, staring at his fingernails, twisting his hand and curling his fingers up to his face, as if he were admiring a recent manicure. “I’m going to slit my wrists.”

“Come on, Gar. Why would you want to do that?”

“I can’t do this. I can’t be locked up. I need to tell you—”

Horton interrupted again. “Whoa! Don’t tell me anything, Gar. Here’s what you have to do.”

New York had a strange law whereby a suspect with a warrant against him could not waive his right to an attorney and begin confessing to any crimes without an attorney present. It seemed almost ludicrous that a suspect couldn’t just sign a waiver and begin talking, but it was the law. Horton wasn’t about to waste what amounted to twelve years’ worth of work by overlooking it. He was too close. He could feel the energy bleeding out of Evans; he wanted to get things off his chest. He needed to talk. Whatever he was carrying around with him, Horton recognized, was destroying him physically, mentally, emotionally.

“If there was one part of being human that Gary Evans could never handle,” Horton observed later, “it was stress.”

So Horton explained, as plainly as he could, the law as it stood in Evans’s case. He told him he would call the district attorney’s office—“Only if you want me to?”—and set it all up on his behalf.

Evans, still crying, mumbling and fidgeting in his chair, began saying how he believed Horton was the only person he had left, the only person he felt comfortable talking to. He talked about Lisa Morris—“I don’t ever want to see that bitch again”—and how she had set him up. Then he went into a diatribe regarding Horton’s involvement in his Vermont capture. Yet he quickly changed subjects, saying, “You did a good job,” as if it were some sort of game between them that Horton had won.

Horton didn’t comment. Instead, he listened.

“Why couldn’t you have let someone else do it, or go work on another case?” Evans wanted to know at one point.

“Come on, Gar,” Horton said. Then he asked, changing the subject, “What should I do for you?”

“Do what you have to. Just get it done.”

Horton got up and began walking toward the door. “Hang on, Gar. Don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of it.”

“I won’t talk to anyone else,” Evans said. “Just you, Guy.”

From his cell phone in the parking lot of the jail, Horton called the Albany County District Attorney’s Office—specifically, ADA Paul Clyne. Horton and Clyne had worked together on cases in the past.