Gill’s story led to three formal government investigations into Lord Stanley, one in the U.S.
and two in Britain. The newspaper may have paid him a lot of money for what sounded like an unbelievable story.
But as far as anyone could tell, it looks like everything he said was true.”
61
THE INFORMANT
“So Mr. Gill is back again, getting paid to tell the truth.”
“I guess that’s his message.”
“But—you’ve lost me now,” he said with a grimace.
“How does his use of the name Gill lead to the conclusion that the informant’s not the killer?”
“Simple: It’s too cute, amateurish, something you’d come across in a bad movie. It’s the ploy of someone fairly dull-witted who thinks he’s being clever. The killer’s not at all like that. He’s far more intelligent, far more savvy. At least, in my view he is.”
Dougherty’s look was incredulous. “That’s all you’ve got to go on—his chosen alias is inconsistent with your profile?”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes. It’s like the Yorkshire Ripper case in the late seventies. Obviously I wasn’t around back then, but I studied it in one of my courses at Quantico.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It was in England. After four years of investigation, the police had eight serial murders on their hands with no suspects—until someone mailed in a tape recording, claiming to be the killer. The Brits jumped all over it.
They broadcast it on television and radio, hoping someone would recognize the voice. Hundreds of police officers went out in the field playing the tape for people who lived in the victims’ neighborhoods, hoping they’d recognize the voice. Then finally, as a favor to the experts at Bramshill, one of our agents listened to it. Instantly, he knew it was bogus. There wasn’t any scientific way for him to know that. But he was sure he was right, because the tape was inconsistent with the 62
James Grippando
profile of the killer he’d constructed from the evidence.
And you know what? He was right. The guy on the tape wasn’t the killer. It was a hoax.
“I feel just as strongly about Mr. Gill. I’m not saying the informant’s a crank. Somehow, he does appear to have some insight into the killings. But he’s not the killer.
Not in my book.”
Dougherty breathed a heavy sigh. Victoria watched nervously as he mulled it over in his mind. The silence seemed insufferable. He shook his head and was about to speak, but she cut him off.
“I know I’m right, sir.” She spoke firmly and with complete confidence.
He gave her a long, discerning look, but she didn’t flinch. The car rolled to a stop at the guard gate at the Capitol.
“All right,” he said finally, almost begrudgingly. “Put it in writing. Send me a memo requesting that we pay this informant based upon your firm professional opinion that the informant is not the killer. If you’re willing to put your neck on the line, I’ll get the money approved.”
She smiled with relief, then opened the car door and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
“I know I won’t,” he said flatly. “That’s what your memo’s for.”
She stepped down from the limo and closed the door.
Her smile faded as she stood alone at the guard gate, watching the big black limo pull away.
63
Chapter 9
v ictoria arranged to meet Mike Posten at Mango’s Café in Fort Lauderdale at 2:00 P.M. She’d wanted their first meeting to be out in the open so that their ren-dezvous would appear casual, and Mike had wanted it out of Miami so that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew.
Mango’s was a corner café in the heart of the upscale shopping area on east Fort Lauderdale’s Las Olas Boulevard. It was an older area that had gone up and down with the economy over the decades, but these days it was definitely up. Trendy art galleries, boutiques and antique shops flourished beneath a canopy of bushy palms and sprawling oaks that pointed
and two in Britain. The newspaper may have paid him a lot of money for what sounded like an unbelievable story.
But as far as anyone could tell, it looks like everything he said was true.”
61
THE INFORMANT
“So Mr. Gill is back again, getting paid to tell the truth.”
“I guess that’s his message.”
“But—you’ve lost me now,” he said with a grimace.
“How does his use of the name Gill lead to the conclusion that the informant’s not the killer?”
“Simple: It’s too cute, amateurish, something you’d come across in a bad movie. It’s the ploy of someone fairly dull-witted who thinks he’s being clever. The killer’s not at all like that. He’s far more intelligent, far more savvy. At least, in my view he is.”
Dougherty’s look was incredulous. “That’s all you’ve got to go on—his chosen alias is inconsistent with your profile?”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes. It’s like the Yorkshire Ripper case in the late seventies. Obviously I wasn’t around back then, but I studied it in one of my courses at Quantico.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It was in England. After four years of investigation, the police had eight serial murders on their hands with no suspects—until someone mailed in a tape recording, claiming to be the killer. The Brits jumped all over it.
They broadcast it on television and radio, hoping someone would recognize the voice. Hundreds of police officers went out in the field playing the tape for people who lived in the victims’ neighborhoods, hoping they’d recognize the voice. Then finally, as a favor to the experts at Bramshill, one of our agents listened to it. Instantly, he knew it was bogus. There wasn’t any scientific way for him to know that. But he was sure he was right, because the tape was inconsistent with the 62
James Grippando
profile of the killer he’d constructed from the evidence.
And you know what? He was right. The guy on the tape wasn’t the killer. It was a hoax.
“I feel just as strongly about Mr. Gill. I’m not saying the informant’s a crank. Somehow, he does appear to have some insight into the killings. But he’s not the killer.
Not in my book.”
Dougherty breathed a heavy sigh. Victoria watched nervously as he mulled it over in his mind. The silence seemed insufferable. He shook his head and was about to speak, but she cut him off.
“I know I’m right, sir.” She spoke firmly and with complete confidence.
He gave her a long, discerning look, but she didn’t flinch. The car rolled to a stop at the guard gate at the Capitol.
“All right,” he said finally, almost begrudgingly. “Put it in writing. Send me a memo requesting that we pay this informant based upon your firm professional opinion that the informant is not the killer. If you’re willing to put your neck on the line, I’ll get the money approved.”
She smiled with relief, then opened the car door and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
“I know I won’t,” he said flatly. “That’s what your memo’s for.”
She stepped down from the limo and closed the door.
Her smile faded as she stood alone at the guard gate, watching the big black limo pull away.
63
Chapter 9
v ictoria arranged to meet Mike Posten at Mango’s Café in Fort Lauderdale at 2:00 P.M. She’d wanted their first meeting to be out in the open so that their ren-dezvous would appear casual, and Mike had wanted it out of Miami so that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew.
Mango’s was a corner café in the heart of the upscale shopping area on east Fort Lauderdale’s Las Olas Boulevard. It was an older area that had gone up and down with the economy over the decades, but these days it was definitely up. Trendy art galleries, boutiques and antique shops flourished beneath a canopy of bushy palms and sprawling oaks that pointed
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