Shadow Man (50 page)

“One of us is going to do the interrogation of our lives and crack him wide, wide open, Alan.”

49

W
E’RE STANDING IN
the observation room with Barry, looking through the one-way glass at Robert Street. He’s seated at a table, cuffed at the wrists and ankles.

He’s nondescript, which surprises me on some level. He has brown hair, and a hard face made up of planes and edges. His eyes are hot and angry, while the rest of him is relaxed. He’s staring back at us through the mirror.

“Pretty cool cucumber,” Alan says. “We know anything about this guy yet?”

“Not much,” Barry says. “Name is Robert Street. Thirty-eight years old, single, never been married, no kids. Works as a martial-arts instructor in the Valley.” He looks at me, nodding to indicate my swollen lips.

“But you already found that out.”

“Do you have an address on him yet?” I ask.

“Yeah. He lives in an apartment in Burbank. With the match to the prints found in your friend’s place, we’ll be able to get a warrant. I have someone on that now.”

“Who should do the interview?” Alan asks. “You said ‘one of us’—so who’s it going to be? You or me?”

“You. No question.” It’s a no-brainer for me. Alan is the best, and the man inside that room holds the key to finding the real Jack Jr. To ending all of this.
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He gives me a long look and nods, turning to watch Robert Street through the glass. He watches him for long moments. Barry and I are patient, we wait him out; we know that we are disappearing for Alan, that he is fixing himself firmly into the zone, studying Street like a hunter studies game.

Getting ready to crack him like a walnut.

We need to break him, for all kinds of reasons. The truth is, we don’t have him, not yet. The fingerprints at Annie’s apartment could be explained away. A good defense attorney might argue that the prints got there when he moved the bed doing his whole pest-control thing. Which, while fraudulent and compelling in its own right, doesn’t add up to murder, per se. We have his DNA but no results back yet. What if it’s Jack’s DNA under Charlotte Ross’s fingernail and not Street’s? More than all of this, we need him to lead us to Jack Jr. Alan looks at Barry. “Can you let me in?”

Barry takes him outside and, not long after that, I watch Alan enter the interview room. Robert Street looks up at him. Cocks his head, examining. And smiles.

“Wow,” he sneers. “I guess you’re the bad cop, huh?”

Alan saunters over, the picture of someone with plenty of time on his hands, and pulls up a chair so that he’s seated directly in front of Street. He straightens his tie. Smiles. Watching, I know that every move is calculated. Not just the moves, but their speed. How close they come to Street. The pitch of his voice when he speaks. It’s all an act, with one end in sight.

“Mr. Street, my name’s Alan Washington.”

“I know who you are. How’s the wife?”

Alan smiles, shaking his head, and waggles a finger at him. “Smart,”

he says. “Trying to get me rattled and angry right out of the box.”

Street yawns in exaggerated boredom. “Where’s that cunt Barrett?”

he asks.

“She’ll be around,” Alan says. “You popped her pretty good in that apartment.”

This elicits a nasty smile. “Glad to hear it.”

Alan shrugs. “Hey—between you and me? I feel like popping her one myself, sometimes.”

Street’s eyes narrow. “Really?” He sounds doubtful.
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C O D Y M C F A D Y E N

“Can’t help it. I’m old-school. I was raised, women have a place.” He grins. “And it’s under me, not over me, if you know what I mean.” He chuckles. “Hell, I’ve had to slap the wife around every now and then. Just to make sure she remembers where she stands.”

Alan has Street’s full attention now. The monster’s gaze is full of fascination, desire warring with doubt. He wants Alan to mean what he’s saying, and this need is overcoming his distrust.

The days of rubber hoses and “good cop bad cop” are long gone. There is an established science of interview and interrogation, tried and proven. It is a dance based on psychology, involving a certain art mixed with tremendous observation. Step one is always the same: Establish a rapport. If Street liked bass fishing, Alan would become an instant sports-fishing enthusiast. If he was a gun nut, Alan would draw him out with a knowledge of weapons. Street likes to hurt women. And so, for now, Alan does too. And it will work. I have seen it work on hardened criminals. I have even seen it work on cops who know this technique and are trained in it. It’s human nature, irresistible and inevitable.

“What would the FBI think about that?” Street asks. Alan leans forward, full of menace. “She knows to keep her mouth shut.”

Street nods, impressed.

“Anyway,” Alan says. “You hit Smoky pretty good. Some of the other guys too. They said you were doing some fancy martial arts in there. You teach, right?”

“That’s right.”

“What style?”

“Wing chun. It’s a form of kung fu.”

“No shit? Bruce Lee, huh?” He smiles. “I got a black belt in karate.”

He looks Alan up and down, gauging his size. “Are you any good? Do you take it seriously? Or is it just for show?”

“I spar twice a week, do my kata daily, and have for the last ten years.”

I look at Barry. “Alan doesn’t know a karate chop from a roundhouse kick.”

Street nods. A little dip of man-to-man respect. Alan is connecting with him. “That’s good. You have to keep yourself sharp. A big man like you, you could be pretty lethal.”

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Alan holds his hands open, a “hey, I try” gesture. “I have my moments. What about you? What year did you start with kung fu?”

I see Street pause, thinking. Doing what Alan wants without knowing it. “I don’t remember the exact year . . . I was five or six. We were living in San Francisco.”

Alan whistles. “Long time. How long does it take—average—for a guy to go from nothing to competent in kung fu?”

Street considers. “That’s hard to say. It depends on the person. But as a general rule—four to five years.”

Alan is using innocuous questions to create a baseline. He’s using a technique called neurolinguistic interviewing, which involves asking the subject two types of questions. One type asks him to remember something. The other requires him to use his cognitive process. Alan is noting Street’s body language as he does this, what changes take place when he thinks of information as opposed to remembering it. This is primarily in the eyes, and Street has the classic mannerisms. When Alan had asked him for an actual memory—what year did he start learning kung fu?—Street’s eyes had looked to the right. When he had asked him a thinking question—to calculate how long it would take for someone to become proficient—Street’s eyes had looked down and to the left. Alan now knows that if he asks Street a “remember question” and Street’s eyes look down and to the left, he’s probably lying, as he is thinking rather than remembering.

“Four to five years. Not too bad.” Alan motions with a hand behind his chair. It is a signal, and I respond to it by tapping on the window. Alan grimaces. “Sorry. Give me a second.”

Street doesn’t reply, and Alan gets up and leaves the room. A moment later, he is in the observation room with us.

“He may act cool,” he says, “but he doesn’t know squat about body language and interrogation. I’m going to roll right over him.”

“Be careful,” I say. “We want him to point us to Jack Jr. You don’t know yet how loyal he’ll be.”

Alan looks at me, shakes his head. “It won’t matter.” He turns to Barry. “You got that file folder?”

“Right here.” Barry hands him a file folder filled with various papers, all of them either unrelated to Street or blank. The name ROBERT STREET

is clearly printed on the front of the folder.

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The folder is just a prop. Alan is about to change the tone and pace of the interview. It will now become confrontational. In our society, file folders are equated with important information, and the fact that this one is filled with documents will imply to Street that we have a lot of evidence against him. Alan will go in and deliver what’s called the “confrontational statement.” It’s a key point in this type of interrogation, and can be dramatic. Some suspects become so demoralized that they’ll actually faint when they’re given the confrontational statement. Alan watches Street for a few more moments and then heads toward the door. A moment later he reenters the interview room. He acts like he’s reading through the folder. He closes it and holds it so that Street can see his name on it. Alan stands this time, he doesn’t sit. He takes a wide stance, legs shoulder-width apart. Everything about him says he is dominant, in control. Confident. All of it is purposeful and calculated.

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Street. We know you were involved in the murders of Annie King and Charlotte Ross. We have you pretty cold on this. Fingerprints found at Annie King’s apartment have been matched to your prints. We’re comparing DNA evidence from Charlotte Ross’s apartment to some of your DNA right now, and I’ll bet we get a match. We also have the MO you used prior to committing the crimes—the signed receipts you left as an ‘exterminator.’ We have some pretty good handwriting experts who should be able to tie those to you. We got you. What I want to know is—are you willing to talk to me about this?”

Street looks at Alan, who towers over him, exuding confidence and power, the picture of the alpha male. His eyes widen a bit, and I can see that his breathing has quickened. Then they narrow again, and he smiles. Shrugs.

“I would—if I had any idea what you were talking about.”

Street smiles wider, the Cheshire cat. He thinks he still holds a trump card. That we don’t know there are two of them. Alan is quiet. Staring at him. In an abrupt motion he turns to one side, picks up the interview table, and moves it against the far wall. He then puts his chair directly in front of Street. He sits down, close. Threatening.

“What are you doing?” Street asks. There is a hint of nervousness in his voice. Some sweat on his brow.

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Alan looks surprised. “I just want to make sure I’m getting everything, Mr. Street.”

He looks through the meaningless file folder again and frowns. Shakes his head. Acting, acting, acting. He puts the folder down on the floor next to his chair and moves the chair closer to Street, invading his personal space. I watch as he positions one knee just inside Street’s knees, creating a subconscious threat to his manhood. The killer swallows. The sweat on his forehead is more noticeable now. He, however, is unaware of these physiological reactions. All he knows is that Alan has filled his world and that he is getting very uncomfortable.

“See, there’s a loose end.”

Street swallows again. “What?”

Alan nods. “A loose end.” He leans even closer now. Pushes his knee in a bit farther. “You see, we know you haven’t been acting alone.”

Street’s eyes open wide. His breathing accelerates. He belches, without being aware of it. “What?”

“You have an accomplice. We were able to figure it out from the video of Annie King’s murder. A difference in height. And we know he’s the real Jack Jr., not you.”

Street looks like a fish on a hook, mouth opening and closing. His eyes are fixed on Alan. He belches again. His hands come down in a protective cupping of his crotch. All of this is reflexive; he remains unaware. Alan leans in closer.

“Do you know who he is, Robert?” Alan asks.

“No!” Eyes down and to the left. Lying.

“Well, Robert . . . I think you do, Robert. Robert, I think you know who he is and where we can find him. Robert, is that true?” Alan uses repetition of his name to create both an undercurrent of accusation and a feeling of there being nowhere to hide. It’s like going “hey—YOU”

again and again.

Street stares at Alan. He is covered in sweat.

“No.”

“What I can’t figure out? Why you’d be protecting him.” Alan leans in farther. Rubs his chin in thought. “Maybe . . .” He snaps his fingers.