SIX
They reached the Adam’s Mark Hotel clerk by telephone and were informed that Geoffrey Harris had checked out at ten o’clock that morning. The clerk told them that he presumed he had flown back to New York, where he was from.
Hastings was driving while Klosterman was the one on the phone with the clerk. He didn’t like the drift of what he could overhear.
Klosterman said, “Do you know what airline he was booked on?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t. I remember that he asked for directions to the Central West End.”
Klosterman said, “Yes?”
“I mean, he acted as if he had a lunch date there.”
“What restaurant?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But he’s not there anymore?”
“No, sir. He took his luggage and got into a cab this morning.”
“Hold on a minute.” Klosterman lowered the cell phone and turned to Hastings. “What do we do?”
Hastings exhaled. “Tell him we’re sending someone to talk to him. Howard or Murph. Get Ronnie Wulf on the phone.” Ronnie Wulf was the chief of detectives.
Hastings peeled off the interstate at the Jefferson Avenue exit. Made a series of turns and then gunned it hard as he put the car back on the highway and drove west toward the airport.
Klosterman was holding his cell phone now, breathing through his nose.
Then: “Chief? Joe Klosterman. Sir, I’m here with Lieutenant Hastings. We’re investigating the murder of a call girl found down by the Mississippi this morning. . . . Yes, sir, that’s ours.”
Hastings said, “The airport.”
“We believe that she was with a gentleman named Geoffrey Harris, that’s with a G, from Westchester County, New York. With him last night. He’s either left town or he’s about to. . . . No, sir, we don’t know what airline.”
Klosterman nodded his head. “Yes, sir . . . Yes, sir, that would help us a great deal. You can reach me at this number. . . . We’re on our way there now. Thank you.”
Klosterman clicked off the phone. “He’s calling the airport police now.”
The chief of detectives had more clout than either of them and he would be able to find out which airline the suspect was on before they could. The hope was that Ronnie Wulf would find out and give them the information before they reached the airport.
He did. The call came back as they rolled up to the airport departure lots. The police light was on the dash, blinking on and off. There was a uniformed officer there, and they got out of the car as a St. Louis County car pulled up behind them, its lights on as well.
Klosterman said, “Okay,” into his cell phone. Then to Hastings: “United Air. He was about to board first class, but they’ve delayed it.”
Hastings said, “Does he know we’re coming?”
“No. They just told him it was a delay.”
Hastings turned to the two uniformed officers behind him. After a brief greeting, he said, “I don’t want this guy spooked. Hang back and wait for my signal. Okay? As of now, he may be only a witness, and we don’t want to create a stampede.”
They walked quickly down the long path of one of the airport’s wings, passing the gates and coffee stands. They got to the gate in question, and Hastings could see the apprehension on the ticket attendant’s face. She saw the uniforms, and Hastings made eye contact with her.
The woman nodded in the direction of a man of about sixty, bald on top with gray hair on the sides. He was wearing a blue blazer and pressed white shirt.
Hastings made a signal to the uniforms and they stopped walking. Klosterman began a wide arc that would ultimately bring him behind the old man.
Then Hastings walked up to him.
The man held his raincoat over his lap. He was looking out the window, perhaps to see if the weather would prevent him from leaving town.
Hastings said, “Mr. Harris?”
The man looked up.
Hastings had his identification out. “My name is George Hastings. St. Louis police.”
“Yes.” Harris’s voice was one of authority. Regal and British. He addressed the policeman as he would address a bank clerk.
Hastings said, “You were with a young lady last night who goes by the name of Ashley.” He didn’t make it a question.
Harris said, “What business is that of yours?”
“It’s police business. Where is she now?”
“How should I know? What is this, some sort of attempt to extort me? If that’s your game, Officer, you’ve picked the wrong man.”
“Mr. Harris, you’re mistaken.” Hastings glanced over the man and saw that Klosterman was close behind him now, his pistol at his side, pointed down. No scenes, please, Hastings thought.
Hastings said, “Sir, do you know where she is now?”
“No. See here, I’ve done nothing improper. You want to arrest me for—Well, you’ve got no proof.”
“No proof of what?”
“Of—well, you know. Really, this is ridiculous.”
“Mr. Harris, I’m afraid we can’t let you board that flight. The girl is dead and we need to question you about it. I can read you your Miranda rights here in front of all these people or we can go someplace private.”
“Oh, Christ,” Harris said, his regal expression crumbling.
SEVEN
Ten minutes later, they were seated in a small room at airport security. They read him his rights but did not put him in handcuffs. They told him that he could have a lawyer appointed for him if he couldn’t afford one, and he shook his head during that part. And after that was out of the way, he talked to them quite freely, not so much as a man wanting to confess but as one wanting to get things straightened out.
Geoffrey Harris told them that he was an investment banker with a large house in New York. That he had started working in finance in London after graduating from the London School of Economics and had been sent to the New York office in 1991. He told them that he was married with four children and six grandchildren. He said he was in St. Louis on business.
He said, “The gentleman I worked with is named Robert Alan Gray. He is what we call in this industry a wholesaler.”
Hastings said, “Selling what?”
“Financial products. They want old men like myself to buy those products. As part of the wining and dining, they basically give us a girl. He is the one who provided me with Ashley. I shall be glad to give you his telephone number. In fact, I can give you his card.”
Hastings said, “Mr. Harris, you’re not being honest with us.”
“What?”
“We’ve been informed that you requested to see Ashley. That’s what the records at the escort service indicate. Your name, not Mr. Gray’s.”
“Oh . . . well.”
Hastings said, “You want to try again? And let me advise you of something before you go on: you’ve just been informed that you have the right to remain silent. Now you can exercise that right and we can make this thing a whole lot more complicated than it needs to be with lawyers and warrants and detentions. Or you can remain silent. But what you don’t want to do is try to mislead us, because that by itself can be grounds for filing criminal charges. Okay?”
It took some of the salt out of this rich and successful man, and it was intended to.
“Well,” Harris said. “Well, all right. I did telephone her. This time. The first time I was here, Robert set it up. And I’m confident your sources will verify that.”
“But you called her the second time,” Hastings said.
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Well, I liked her. She seemed like a—nice woman.”
“When did you call her?”
“Friday. I called the agency soon after I arrived. I had a late lunch with Robert and some others from Enterprise Finance and then we met at the hotel.”
“She came to your room?”
“Yes.”
“How long was she there?�
��
“Two hours.”
“And she billed you for that time?”
“Yes. It was not . . .”
“I’m not interested in booking you for solicitation, Mr. Harris. So long as you cooperate. What did you do with her?”
“She was . . . with me for the first hour. The second hour, we just talked.”
“Talked.”
“Yes. I’m not so young anymore.”
“You just wanted companionship?”
“Yes.”
“Someone to talk to.”
“Yes.”
“But you were intimate with her?”
“Yes.”
“Any rough stuff?”
“No. Nothing of the sort.”
“From when to when?”
“From approximately four to six.”
“Six in the evening?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“Then she left.”
“And you?”
“I stayed in my room. I had another drink and then I went to sleep. I’d say at around eight P.M.”
“Why would you say that?”
“That’s my usual bedtime.”
There was a knock on the door. Hastings said, “Excuse me,” and went to answer it.
It was Klosterman. Hastings went out and shut the door behind him.
Klosterman said, “We’ve got his suitcase.”
Hastings said, “You haven’t gone through it, have you?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll get his permission to search it.” Hastings paused, looked off to a wall. Then he said, “Bring it in here.”
“Now?” Klosterman said. “With him in there?”
“Yeah.”
They went back into the security room. Harris was still in his seat, seeming unflappable. But he was English, and Hastings was beginning to think they could be a pretty tough breed.
Hastings said, “Mr. Harris, this is Sergeant Klosterman. As you can see, we’ve got your suitcase here. I can get a search warrant to go through this, but that would take up a lot of time. With your permission, we’d like to search it right now.”
Harris waved an aristocratic hand, telling them to go ahead.
While Klosterman popped it open, Hastings sat down again. He did not want to stand over this man because he suspected that if he bullied him any more than he had, the man would clam up. Harris had been set straight once and hopefully that would be enough.
Hastings said, “Did you rent a car while you were here?”
“No. I used a taxi.”
“Do you always?”
“Yes, always.”
“And you say you were in your hotel room from four in the evening until you checked out this morning?”
“I was.”
“If we were to ask you to take a polygraph examination, would you be willing to do that?”
“A lie detector test?”
“Yes.”
“I thought those weren’t admissible in the American courts.”
“They’re not. But it helps us with an investigation.”
“I’ll take one today if you like.”
“Good,” Hastings said. “We’ll try to make it quick.” He looked over at Klosterman. Clothes were taken out of the suitcase and set on the table. Klosterman shrugged.
Hastings said, “The girl was strangled to death, Mr. Harris. And there’s no evidence that she was robbed. If you’re innocent of this crime, the evidence will show it. We’d like to examine some of the things in your suitcase.”
“To prove I did it?”
“Well, more to prove that you didn’t. The truth is, sir, we want to clear you as a suspect if you’re not the killer.”
“Eliminate me from the process?”
“It would help us out,” Hastings said. He looked to Klosterman again and knew that they were both wondering the same thing: whether there were traces of the girl’s skin on the man’s ties or belts or anything else that could’ve been used to choke the life out of her.
Hastings said, “We’d like to do that with a certain amount of discretion, you understand.”
Geoffrey Harris smiled at them for the first time. He knew a couched threat when he heard one. “I’m all for that, Lieutenant.”
EIGHT
Geoffrey Harris voluntarily came to the downtown police headquarters and submitted to a polygraph examination. The test was conducted by Burl Davidson, a sergeant whom Klosterman had managed to reach by cell phone. Burl Davidson was a year away from retirement and already had set up a convenience store in St. Charles. He was a slight-looking man with glasses, and he could pass for a schoolteacher. He was an expert examiner.
Hastings and Klosterman watched Davidson do his work in another room on a television monitor. Burl videotaped all his examinations unless instructed to do otherwise. Harris was informed of this.
It took about forty-five minutes, and when it was done, Davidson removed the clips and told Harris that it was all over and he would be back in a moment.
Hastings and Klosterman watched Burl Davidson leave the black-and-white screen and a couple of seconds later heard him knock on the door.
“Yeah,” Klosterman said, and Davidson walked in and sat in a chair across from them.
“Well, the results are conclusive,” Davidson said. “He’s telling the truth.”
Hastings said, “If he’s a sociopath, he could fool the machine.” He was thinking of the Green River serial killer in Seattle. He too had passed a polygraph. The police released him as a suspect and he went on to murder more prostitutes. Of course, the examination had been flawed in some respects.
Davidson said, “It’s possible but not likely. In fact, it’s very unlikely. He exhibits no traits of your typical sociopath. Do you suspect him?”
“No,” Hastings said. He hadn’t, really, even before the examination. But he wanted to be thorough. He turned to Klosterman and said, “What do you think?”
“I think he’s clean too.”
“What did you think before the exam?”
“I thought he was clean,” Klosterman said. “The hotel clerk says he didn’t leave the hotel that evening. Their security cameras would have caught him. M.E. says the time of death was between seven and eight that evening. He didn’t have transportation. If he killed her in his hotel room, he would have had to carry her almost a mile to dump her by the river. There’s no way he could have transported her there. And even if he had a car hidden in the parking garage, at his age and in his condition . . . it’s not possible. And his luggage has provided us no physical evidence that he strangled her. He’s just a lonely old man. Her last client.”
“Or second to last,” Hastings said.
Davidson said, “I don’t think he’s a sociopath.” He wanted them to confirm his opinion.
“He’s not,” Hastings said. “Thanks for coming down, Burl.”
“Anytime, George.”
Hastings went back into the investigation room and said to Geoffrey Harris, “You’re free to go. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Not at all. I presume I passed your test?” A little irritation in his voice.
Hastings said, “You did. Can we offer you a ride back to the airport?”
“No, thank you. If you could telephone a taxi for me.”
“Sure. Mr. Harris, did Ashley tell you where she was going? By chance, did she tell you that?”
“You mean to another appointment?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“No, Lieutenant. She was a professional, you see. The purpose is to delude an old man like myself into thinking she’s happy to spend time with him. For her to speak of other ‘clients,’ if you will, would dispel the charade. The sad thing is, we’re grateful when they lie.”
Hastings smiled. “I suppose.”
Harris put his coat over his arm. “I hope you find your murderer, Lieutenant. She was a nice young lady. She didn’t deserve this.”
“No, she didn’t.”
Hastings noticed that Harris was suddenly uncomfortable. Not out of guilt but because he thought the American policeman might be expecting a handshake. Hastings was not, and he opened the door.
Harris said, “If there’s anything else you need, you know where to contact me.” Then he was gone.
In the hall, Klosterman said, “Well?”
Hastings looked at his watch. It was almost seven o’clock. “Oh, shit. Let me make a call real quick.”
Carol answered the phone.
“Hi,” Hastings said. “Where are you?”
“I’m at home. What’s going on?”
“I’m still working that homicide. Ah, listen, I’m sorry, but we have to do one more thing before we go off shift.”
He heard her sigh.
“I’m sorry, Carol. We don’t really have any suspects and—well, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. When do you think you’ll be done?”
“Maybe a couple of hours. I know we planned dinner, but—”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Call me when you finish. If it’s not too late.”
“I will. Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
Klosterman said, “Told you not to get married.”
“I didn’t marry her.”
“Oh. Well, I told you not to marry Eileen.”
“That’s right,” Hastings said. “You did. What about your wife? Is she going to let you stay out?”
“Sure. You want to go talk to some more hookers?”
“I was thinking we should go to the girl’s apartment. See if there’s a fellow living there.”
“We haven’t got a search warrant.” Klosterman looked at his watch. “We can call a judge, get a telephonic. But it’s pretty late.”
“Judge Reif will give us one. He’s usually up late.”
“I’ll call him on the way.” Klosterman asked, “You think she was killed by someone she knew?”
“Sort of. If she’s a high-class call girl, I don’t think she would’ve been standing on a street corner pitching for a job. I don’t think she would have gotten into a car with a stranger. And it’s usually someone they know.”
It wasn’t anything Klosterman didn’t know. Most murdered women were done in by boyfriends and husbands, exes who didn’t want to let go. He said, “Yeah, but this was a hooker, George. That widens the scope.”
The Assailant Page 4