“I’ll be there.”
Bischoff hung up without saying good-bye. Evans stared out the window, but he didn’t see a thing. He had to believe that Hawkins was thinking of pleading guilty against the advice of his counsel, but he couldn’t think of what he’d said that would have frightened a man as powerful as Hawkins into negotiating a guilty plea.
Chapter Forty-one
Gary Bischoff ’s law office occupied part of the first floor of an elegant red brick Federalist-style house on a quiet, tree-lined street in Georgetown. The stately home had been built in 1826 by a wealthy merchant, but Keith Evans was too preoccupied to pay any attention to the antiques, oil paintings, and period furniture that Bischoff used to furnish the place.
Bischoff ’s secretary showed the agent into an office in the back that looked out through leaded windows on a beautifully maintained garden where a very attractive woman was sunbathing in a lime bikini. Evans remembered reading that some years ago Bischoff and his first wife had been involved in a bloody divorce. He guessed that the woman in the backyard was Bischoff ’s trophy wife, which would explain Bischoff ’s rigorous exercise routine. She was at least fifteen years younger than the lawyer, who appeared to have aged since the morning meeting.
“I want you to understand that I’ve advised Mr. Hawkins against this course of action,” Bischoff said, straining to maintain a professional demeanor, “but he’s the client and he makes the ultimate decision on how he’ll proceed.”
“Okay, Gary, I understand.”
Evans studied Hawkins, who was sitting in a high-backed armchair, one leg crossed over the other, looking calm to the same degree that his attorney was agitated.
“Can I speak directly to Mr. Hawkins?”
Bischoff waved a hand at Evans, signaling that he wanted nothing to do with what was going to occur.
“Mr. Hawkins, may I record this conversation?” Evans asked as he took a cassette recorder out of his jacket pocket.
Hawkins nodded. Evans stated the date, the time, the place where the interview was being conducted, and the names of all present. Then he gave Hawkins his Miranda warnings.
“Mr. Hawkins, why are we here?” Evans asked as soon as Hawkins acknowledged the warnings.
“I want to plead guilty to the charges.”
“All of them?” Evans asked, unable to hide his surprise.
“I’ll have to see the indictments before I can answer that. But I’m prepared to accept responsibility for the crimes I committed.”
“You understand that conviction for some of these crimes can carry a death sentence?”
“Yes.”
“Gary says that he’s advised you that this meeting is not in your best interest. Is that true?”
“He told me that you don’t have much of a case. It’s his opinion that it would be very difficult for a prosecutor to get a conviction.”
“So why do you want to confess?”
“I’m Catholic. I have a conscience. I’ve done terrible things, and I want to atone for them.”
Evans didn’t buy the religious angle, but he wasn’t going to stop Hawkins if he wanted to confess.
“I don’t want to put words in your mouth,” the agent said, “so why don’t you tell me what crimes you believe you’ve committed?”
“Chuck, don’t do this,” Bischoff begged. “At least let me try to negotiate some concessions from the government.”
“I appreciate your concern, Gary, but I know what I’m doing. If the authorities want to show me mercy, they will. I’m in God’s hands now and I’m prepared to accept whatever He sees fit to give me.”
Evans got the impression that the attorney and his client had debated Hawkins’s position many times before his arrival, with Bischoff losing the argument every time.
“You were right about everything,” Hawkins told Evans. “I killed Rhonda Pulaski, Tim Houston-”
“That’s the chauffeur who saw President Farrington having sex with Pulaski?”
Hawkins’s features tightened. When he spoke his tone was as cold as his eyes.
“Let’s get one thing straight. I’m guilty of many things, but disloyalty to Christopher Farrington is not one of them. He’s not responsible for my actions and I will not discuss him. If you insist on asking about the president of the United States this meeting will end.”
“Okay, I accept that. Go ahead.”
“I killed Mr. Houston. I also murdered Laurie Erickson and Charlotte Walsh.”
“Why did you kill Erickson?”
“She was going to make false accusations against the president. She demanded money. Even though the accusations were false his career would have been ruined.”
“How did you kill Erickson?”
“I left the papers for Chris’s speech in my office in the mansion on purpose to give me an excuse to return. She was very slender. I knocked her out, wrapped her in sheets, and sent her down the laundry chute. I bound and gagged her in the basement, smuggled her out the basement door, put her in the trunk of my car, and returned to the fund-raiser. I’d read the police reports of Clarence Little’s crimes. Later that night, I duplicated his modus operandi.”
“Was Laurie Erickson alive during the fund-raiser?”
Hawkins nodded, and the image of the terrified girl, bound and gagged in suffocating darkness, made it difficult for Evans to maintain his composure.
“What about Charlotte Walsh?”
“Cutler sent me a voice mail telling me where she’d parked. I disabled her car and waited until she came back to the lot. Then I knocked her out, bound and gagged her, put her in my trunk, and drove to the farm to meet with the president.”
“Was Walsh in your trunk while you were at the farm?”
Hawkins nodded.
“She was alive?”
Hawkins nodded again. “As soon as I could get away I killed her, duplicating the Ripper’s MO. Then I left her in the Dumpster.”
“Why did you have Dale Perry hire Cutler?”
“I didn’t trust Walsh. I knew what had happened with Pulaski and Erickson. Those girls were a threat to the president’s career. He’s a great man. The country needs him. I couldn’t let those whores bring him down.”
For the first time, Hawkins’s voice trembled with emotion. Evans might have some questions about Farrington’s involvement, but he had no doubt about the depth of Hawkins’s commitment to the president.
“If you already felt that Walsh was a threat, why did you need to have her followed?”
“I don’t think you need to know that.”
Evans could see that there were problems with Hawkins’s story, but he decided that he wouldn’t pressure Hawkins now. He’d let him talk himself out, put him behind bars, and hit him again when he’d had a nice taste of jail.
“Did Dale Perry commit suicide, did you kill him, or did you order Oscar Tierney or someone else to go after Cutler?”
“I don’t want to discuss Dale Perry’s death.”
“We’re going to cut Tierney a deal, so it won’t hurt him.”
“I may not have made myself clear, Agent Evans. I will tell you what I did but I will not implicate anyone else in a crime. I’m prepared to die for what I’ve done, but I won’t take anyone down with me. And don’t waste your time trying to persuade me to change my mind. I’m going to be executed, so there really isn’t anything you can use to threaten me.”
Evans saw nothing that convinced him that the president’s aide could be moved.
“Mr. Hawkins, based on what you’ve told me I’m going to place you under arrest on kidnapping charges for taking Charlotte Walsh across state lines. We’ll sort out all of the charges and the jurisdictional disputes later. Would you please stand and place your hands behind your back.”
Hawkins did as he was told, and Evans snapped on a pair of cuffs.
“Maggie,” Evans said into his cell phone, “I’m at Gary Bischoff ’s office. I need you and Gordon down here. Charles Hawkins has confessed to several murders.”