Every Move You Make (39 page)

To keep on good terms with the Bureau, Evans would periodically stop by Troop G and offer up someone. At some point in 1990, he had convinced a local guy from Troy to sell him a .44 Magnum. After making arrangements with the guy to meet him, Evans called Horton and Wingate and told them about it.

“Gary Evans always claimed he wanted to get guns off the street,” Doug Wingate said later.

Later on, Horton and Wingate found out that it was all a ruse to keep them focused on anything besides Damien Cuomo and Michael Falco.

“I received a call from Damien,” Evans told Horton one day. “He wants me to go into his parents’ house and remove several boxes of stolen goods that he had hidden in an old shed behind the house. He told me he wanted me to move the boxes because he thought the police were onto him.”

“Sounds good,” Horton said. “Let’s do it.”

Evans drove up and got permission from Damien’s parents to go into the shed and retrieve the boxes. When state police opened the boxes, they found coins, stocks, bonds, passports, personal papers from several area homes Damien had burglarized and an empty bank bag from Capital Tractor. Tucked down underneath everything was a .22-caliber Ruger—the same gun that Evans had used to murder Douglas Berry.

Wingate and Horton weren’t naive, so they continued to question Evans about Falco and Cuomo.

“Gary weighed every word you said,” Wingate recalled later. “You couldn’t say a sentence where he didn’t see where every single word was going. If you don’t have Gary, you
don’t
have him!”

“The word is,” Evans said when they pressed him about Michael Falco, “he went to California. Damien went south.”

Horton was, many of his former colleagues said, an extremely “creative cop, who did whatever he had to do to get the job done.”

By the fall of 1990, at thirty-five, Horton was considered an experienced investigator who was going places in the Bureau. Most didn’t understand his profound desire to help Evans turn his life around. Of course, Horton had no idea Evans was a serial killer. He saw him as a career thief who needed some direction in life—maybe a guy who perhaps had a rough childhood, but could turn his life around if he only applied himself.

“The problem was,” Horton said later, “that every time I tried to help Gary, he let me down.”

Still, whenever Evans found himself in trouble with the law, he depended on Horton (or Wingate) to get him out of it.

There was one time when Evans needed to replace a mirror on his truck. Like any good thief, he decided there was no way in hell he was going to pay for it, so he drove up to Brunswick and found a car dealership.

While unscrewing the mirror off a brand-new truck, a security guard spied him on a television monitor and phoned police.

After being taken into custody by Brunswick State Police, Evans started barking Horton’s name to the judge during his arraignment. “I help Horton. He’s a state police investigator. I want to talk to him.”

Horton got a call from the judge, who happened to be a former trooper and one of his ex-bosses. “We’ve got Gary Evans on a petit larceny over here. He said he’ll ‘trade information…do something for you.’”

Horton, by mere happenstance, had just been promoted to the federal drug task force as supervisor.

“I’ll go over and see him,” Horton told the judge.

Later that day, Horton took a ride to Brunswick to see Evans. “What the hell, Gar,” he said, laughing, “you let some fat, five-dollar-an-hour security guard catch you? I thought you were better than that?”

“Fuckin’ shit…I can’t fucking believe that I got caught stealing mirrors by a motherfucking security guard.” If there was something in the room to destroy, Horton recalled, Evans would have probably given it a good beating.

Horton continued to laugh. He couldn’t get over it. Evans had broken into some of the most secure antique shops and jewelry stores in the Northeast without as much as disturbing a mouse, yet he had been caught by a security guard? It didn’t make sense.

“What are you, some petty thief?” Horton continued. “Are you going to start shoplifting candy bars next?”

“Fuck you! I’m a better thief than that. I just needed the stupid fucking mirror. Can you help me out of this, or what?”

“This is going to cost you,” Horton said with a quip of sarcasm. “You
will
owe me.”

CHAPTER 67

After Horton spoke to the judge on Evans’s part, Evans was given a $240 fine and cut loose. Not two hours after he was released, he called Horton at home. “Let’s go. What can I do for you?”

“That was fast.”

“I pay my debts. I don’t go back on my word.”

“Well, Gar, you’re famous for ripping off drug dealers…. Why don’t we try to figure something out.”

In the federal system, a CI can do what is called a “reversal.” Simply put, the cops can have the drugs and the bad guy can have the money; thus, a CI can solicit the dope deal. In the state system, this can’t be done; it is considered entrapment.

Horton continued: “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll assign you to an agent. We’ll provide you with a thirty-pound bale of marijuana. Who can you get to buy it from you?”

Evans shot right back without missing a beat. “
Archie Bennett.
”

Bennett was a neighbor of Damien Cuomo’s, known around town as a “big-time” drug dealer. Evans had always hated him. He said he would enjoy “fucking him” and not lose a minute’s sleep over it.

A few days later, Evans called Bennett and told him he had robbed a drug dealer in New York City and wanted to dump a bale of pot as soon as possible. “I want thirty-four thousand.”

Bennett said he would get back to him.

Within days, Bennett called to say he had the money.

“Good,” Evans said. “Meet me at the parking lot near the Laundromat by the river.” It was a popular spot in Troy down the street from Bennett’s house. Bennett knew exactly where Evans was talking about.

He and Evans then set up a time for the following day.

Evans called the agent Horton had assigned him and explained what was going on. When Horton heard, he immediately began wondering if Evans was telling the truth. It seemed too easy.

“I need to be there,” Horton told the agent. “Nobody knows Gary like me. I trust him, but I don’t trust him.”

In all, there were about ten agents set up in every nook surrounding the area near the parking lot. Horton stationed himself in a convenience store diagonally across the block.

Evans pulled up about 1:30
P.M
. An agent met with him and gave him the bale of dope while Horton sneaked around to the front of his car and unhooked the coil wire so Evans couldn’t act on any strange impulses he might have of taking off.

At 2:00
P.M
. sharp, Bennett walked into the parking lot and sat in Evans’s Saab.

Under normal circumstances, a CI would be arrested along with the target to make it look like a normal grab. That way, the buyer wouldn’t suspect—at least not right away—a setup.

Evans, however, told Horton he wanted Bennett to know he was being set up. Horton didn’t have much of a problem with it. If Evans wanted to show Bennett he wasn’t scared of him, so be it. But Horton said they wouldn’t make an issue out of it; they just wouldn’t cuff Evans and lead him away with Bennett.

As Horton took a crunch out of a hot dog while standing in the window of the convenience store across the street, he watched as Bennett gave Evans a brown paper bag, which contained the money.

Within a few seconds, all of the agents “swooped in and grabbed Bennett.” Evans, turning to Bennett, mouthed,
Fuck you, asshole,
and walked away from the car.

As Bennett was being put into one of the cruisers, Evans began mumbling and skulking about, noticeably upset at something.

“What is it, Gar?” Horton asked.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Evans said. “Damn it all. Son of a bitch. Motherfucker.”

“What
is
it, Gar? Talk to me?”

“Bennett never even asked me to see the drugs!”

“Yeah, so. Big deal. We got him.”

“I could have pulled this shit off without you assholes and pocketed the thirty-four thousand myself. Motherfucker, I didn’t need you guys.”

Horton started laughing.

In the end, Evans received about $2,500 for his role. A confidential informant, under the federal system, is entitled to a percentage of any take he is involved in.

After working with Horton on nailing Bennett, who was basically given a slap on the wrist and released, Evans became engrossed in the excitement of working with Horton on that level. He envied Horton in many ways, and made no secret about telling him how much he wished he could have been more like him.

“My way of thinking was to always make Gary feel like he was doing a good thing by me,” Horton said. “He believed that I was totally taken with him—and that was part of my wanting to know things about him he just wouldn’t come out and tell me. I began to suspect that he’d had something to do with the disappearance of Damien Cuomo and Michael Falco, as we became closer. I still had no proof, of course, but I felt I was getting somewhere.”

Indeed, once Evans got a taste of police work, he wanted more—like an addict.

Months after the Bennett job, Evans phoned Horton and told him he needed to talk to him about another “job.” Horton was never one to pass up an opportunity to hear Evans out. So he agreed to meet him.

“We met in the parking lot of a grocery store in Watervliet, New York, across the Hudson River from Troy,” Horton recalled later. “I parked away from most of the shoppers, in an area where most people wouldn’t want to park.”

Evans showed up on foot, which was pretty standard for him whenever he and Horton met. “He had his vehicle parked nearby, but was probably doing counter-surveillance on me, like he always did.”

After sitting down in Horton’s car, Evans began to talk about an idea he had to purchase a few guns. As he talked, a car pulled up, nose to nose, to Horton’s.

“With all these places to park, this guy comes way over here?” Horton said aloud.

“That motherfucker,” Evans said in agreement. Then he opened a newspaper and pretended to read it to block his face so the people in the car couldn’t see him.

Within a few moments, a red Chevrolet Camaro pulled up next to the other car. Neither driver had noticed Horton and Evans sitting in front of them.

Horton couldn’t believe his eyes, but both men got out of their cars and began to make an exchange.

“Drugs for money,” Horton recalled. “Right in front of me. Gary and I couldn’t believe it. As the deal was going down, I’m laughing, explaining to Gary what I’m seeing because he’s still covering his face with the newspaper.”

“Look at these two guys,” Horton said to Evans. “I can’t believe it. They’re doing a drug deal not ten feet from me. Isn’t it obvious that I’m in a Bureau car?”

Evans couldn’t help himself. He had to peek around the newspaper to see it for himself.

“Motherfucker,” he said.

“Quick, get out of my car,” Horton said at that point. The men had completed the deal and were getting into their cars to leave.

“Let me go with you,” Evans pleaded. He had a noticeable hint of excitement in his voice.

“Get out of my car,” Horton said again, with a bit more authority.

Evans began begging. “Please let me go, Guy. I want to bust them with you. Come on, it’ll be fun. The two of us working together like cops.”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. Car.” Horton wasn’t kidding now. Both cars were approaching the parking lot exit. He had to take off at that moment or the chance of catching one of them was gone.

“Come on, Guy?” Evans asked again.

“I’ll physically throw you out of the car, Gar. Now get out.”

As Horton opened his door to walk around to the passenger side to pull Evans out, Evans took off.

“The cars went in different directions,” Horton added. “I chose to stop the first car, thinking that he was the buyer rather than the seller, because the seller would have more money. He ended up being the buyer. He had an ‘eight ball’ of cocaine on him. I had gotten the plate number off the Camaro and went and picked up the seller later that night. Gary called me the next day at my office and wanted to know what happened.”

“I wish I was a cop so I could do that,” Evans said before they hung up. “I wish I was like you, Guy.”

CHAPTER 68

Not long after Horton and Evans had worked together on the Archie Bennett drug bust, Evans began showing up, it seemed, wherever Horton went. By early 1991, Horton was bumping into Evans routinely in Latham. Near his home. At the market. The local sub shop. The diner. Wherever Horton went, Evans was right behind him.

“Hey, Guy,” Evans might say, coming up from behind. “What’s going on?”

“What are you doing here?” Horton would ask.

After Horton realized it wasn’t a coincidence, he started to turn the tables and “pop in” on Evans wherever he was living. Evans would be sitting on the floor in his hotel room, studying alarm system manuals, browsing through antique magazines, reading astrology books and true-crime books and magazines.

“What’s up, Guy? Come on in.”

Horton tried to center his conversations on why Evans couldn’t focus his passion on something legal. But Evans would always spin the discussion back to burglary, so Horton learned to play into it.

“Tell me about burglarizing homes, Gar? What is a good target?”

Evans perked up. “I would never hit a house with an alarm system sticker on it, or a house with a Beware of Dog sign.”

Horton made a mental note:
Get alarm system stickers.

“What about those manuals…why study them?”

“Most antique shops have alarm systems; they help me understand how they work. I’ve never been caught inside while doing a job.”

Then Horton found out Evans had camped out in the woods in back of his house. “He was watching me watch him,” Horton recalled later. “Both of us had our own agendas by that point.”

It was no secret that Horton and Doug Wingate were investigating Jeffrey Williams. Local newspapers and television had covered the Williams case extensively.