The Carma Klown 13

Chapter 13

© 2013 by the author

Friday, ca. 12:45 p.m., June 11, 2010

 “Yeah, I replied to the ad on Craig’s List. But I never heard back from anyone. I’d almost forgotten about it when I saw your ad.”

“You’re certain that no one contacted you about the first ad? You look like a natural for it.”

Ian Villers, who had introduced himself as an actor who sometimes modeled for underwear ads, nodded to acknowledge the compliment. He was the ninth man that Phil Redding was interviewing out of the fourteen respondents to his ad on Craig’s List who said they had also replied to the first ad. “Yeah, I’m certain. I’d remember something like that, wouldn’t I?”

The other men Redding had interviewed had made the same claims. The nine men varied in height and build. Four of them were definitely overreaching in asserting that they had a muscular back and buttocks. Redding was able to dismiss them immediately. The Carma Klown appeared to prefer young, well-proportioned men with prominent, muscular buttocks and a deep cleft for the second actors in the videos. It was as if the Klown wanted to emphasize the physical contrast between those he was punishing and the men he was using to punish them. Of the remaining five, three, including Villers, were possible matches to the second actors in the videos based on their general looks.

“Have you heard of the Carma Klown?”

“Sure, everybody’s heard of him,” Villers nodded. “He’s been all over the news since that guy killed himself. I haven’t watched any of the videos though. From the descriptions I’ve heard, it’s not my thing.”

“We think the first ad may have been placed by the Klown. That’s why we’re trying to track down anyone who responded to it.” Redding checked the envelopes Michael had given him with printouts from the videos. He found what he was looking for in the collection of screen captures from the second video. “We know it’s probably a long shot, but a lot of police work is eliminating long shots. We suspect the Klown is drugging the people who appear in his videos to get them to do what he wants. None of the people who can be verified as victims has any memory of his participation. So the same may apply to the others as well.”

Villers frowned. Despite his disavowal of knowledge of the contents of the video, he evidently knew enough about them to find the thought that he might have been in one unappealing. He shifted uneasily in his chair, and then pulled back the sleeve of his coat and checked his watch.

I’d better wrap this up, thought Redding. He’s getting restless. He pulled one photo from the envelope and studied it without letting Villers see it. “May I ask, Mr. Villers, if you have any tattoos on your back?” The photo showed a man’s back. The man appeared to be tall and wide-shouldered. He wore jeans and was shirtless. No tattoo was visible, but Redding had intentionally phrased his question as if he were looking at a photo of a man with a tattoo on his back.

Villers immediately relaxed. He thought he was off the hook. “Nah. I hate the things. I can’t imagine why anyone gets one.”

Redding nodded. “Would you take a look at this photo?” Redding slid the photo across the interview table.

Villers picked it up and stared at it for several moments. He turned the photo over and placed it face down on the table. He gulped nervously and then covered his eyes with his hand.

“Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

Villers shook his head.

“Mr. Villers, is it possible that that is your back in the photo?”

Ian Villers reluctantly nodded his head yes. “It might be. But there are lots of guys with backs like that.”

“I assume that because of your work that you are familiar with your appearance. Could I show you some other photos?” Redding didn’t wait for Villers to answer. He pulled the other photos out of the envelope and spread them out on the table and began pointing out certain unique features. “The jeans are standard 501s. Do you own a pair of those?”

“Sure, doesn’t everyone?” Villers glanced at the photos as Redding began arranging them on the table, but he quickly turned away when Redding placed the first ass shot before him.

“What about the belt? Do you have one like it?” Redding picked up one of the photos and forced Villers to look at it.

“Yeah, that might be mine. But there must be several thousand guys with belts like that.”

“Mr. Villers, I appreciate your cooperation in coming in and answering my questions.” Redding put on his best reassuring voice. “As I said, we think the Klown is drugging his victims. None of his victims remembers anything about their participation in the videos. Of course, no one is going to recognize the other participants in the video. Their faces are never shown, and the parts of their bodies that appear are not going to be familiar to most people. But it would help us enormously in catching the Klown if we can find the other men in the videos. I’m going to ask you to look at one more photo. Will you do that for me? I realize that this is unpleasant for you, but I assure you that the information you give us is invaluable.”

Redding lifted a photo of a man’s right buttock and used his pen to point out three spots. “As you can see, there are three small moles on this man’s buttock. We found an underwear ad in which you appeared.” Redding pulled a page torn from a magazine from a folder. “What appear to be two of the same moles are visible above the top edge of these briefs. Would you allow us to check to see if the third mole matches?”

Villers flushed a deep red. “Why would the Klown do this to me?”

Redding shrugged. “You may have been a random victim. The fact that you replied to an ad probably means that the Klown does not know you. But we can’t rule out the possibility that this is some form of revenge against you personally. We won’t know until we catch the guy. I’m sorry to ask, but could I check the moles to see if the pattern matches. It’s the only way we can either confirm that it’s you in the video or eliminate you.”

Villers stood up slowly. He was wearing a corduroy sports jacket over his jeans. He removed that and then turned around. “It’s the right cheek?” When Redding nodded, Villers lowered the jeans on that side to expose his buttock. He was not wearing any underwear, and it took Redding only a few seconds to locate the third mole.

“Thank you. You can . . . ”

Villers quickly lifted his jeans back in place. He took one look at Redding’s face and then said, “Jesus, it was me, wasn’t it?”

Redding nodded. “I’m sorry. The pattern matches.” I’d better get him past this quickly, he thought.

“Mr. Villers, we think the video in which you may have appeared was made at some time either late Friday evening, March 19, or the early hours of Saturday, March 20. Do you know where you were that night?”

“In March on weekends, I was working as a back-up barman at L’Ane d’Or. That’s a bistro on 29th near Lexington. Service stops at 11:30, and the last customers are usually gone by 12:15 or so. I can check to see what I got paid that night and tell you how many hours I worked. We’re usually out of there by 12:30. Sometimes I go out with one of the guys for a drink. Not often though. We’re usually too tired. I usually just go straight home and fall into bed.”

“Do you live alone?”

“I was in March.”

 “Do you remember anything unusual happening in March?”

“Like what?”

“Like an unusual dream? Or waking up on a Saturday morning and feeling strange? Or finding more cash in your wallet than you expected? The Klown may be paying his actors.”

Villers snorted. “No, to the extra cash. That I would remember. I often feel wasted when I wake up after working at night. I probably wouldn’t have thought it was unusual if I woke up feeling like I had a hangover.” He glanced at the cop. “I know what that feels like.”

“What about a strange dream?”

Villers shrugged again. “I can’t remember when I had it, but there was one dream.” Villers looked embarrassed again.

“What happened?”

“Do you know what rimming is, Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I dreamt that I was being rimmed. It struck me as unusual when I woke up. It’s not something I do.”

“Mr. Villers, I’m going to ask you to look at a video. I warn you that you may find it distressing, but I’d like you to watch it until the end.”

By the time the cartoon of the Klown speeding away appeared, Villers was not so much distressed as furious. He wanted the Klown to be punished. Redding quickly took advantage of his anger to get him to dictate a statement, He didn’t tell Villers that he had undergone what would be only the first of several interviews. Nor that if the Klown were brought to trial, he might well end up testifying in court.

In the end, Phil Redding was able to identify only two of the men who had appeared in the first six videos. The other man’s experience was much like Villers’s—he, too, could not remember making a video. But the physical evidence in both cases was irrefutable.

*****

Friday, ca. 2:00 p.m., June 11, 2010

A minute after entering the conference room at Malcolm Hainault’s office, Jerry Baker was ready to concede that the Carma Klown might have a point. He and Sophia White had been kept waiting for twenty-some minutes after the appointed time of 1:30 p.m. White had instructed him to wear the suit and tie he reserved for court appearances. She herself was dressed in the female equivalent. Baker knew he looked good in the suit. He could have passed for another assistant district attorney. When the receptionist finally showed them into the meeting room, Hainault and four other men were already present, occupying one side of a table that was larger than the living room in Baker’s house. The four men rose to their feet as Baker and White entered. The man Baker recognized as Hainault from the video remained seated.

It was difficult, thought Baker, to like some “victims.” There were some who were not so much victims as criminals attacked by rivals. Those he felt had got what they deserved, and he wasted no sympathy on them. In contrast to them were the innocents who had become entangled in a crime—people who surprised a burglar at work in their home and ended up in intensive care, the random pedestrian who crossed paths with a mugger, the shopper at the supermarket who got carjacked. That could happen to anyone; it was simply a matter of bad luck and of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those he could feel compassion for. But even among the genuine victims were those who behaved so stupidly that he could only shake his head in wonderment that they had lasted so long before becoming the victim of a crime. Those, he wanted to shout at. He saw them almost as enablers, walking temptations to criminals.

And then there were victims like Hainault, who seemed to think that the police were their enemy and that they had to defend themselves with lawyers. They begrudged every second of their interviews, they saw no need to supply information, they denied their involvement in the crime even when it was clear. Hainault may have agreed to the interview, but he wasn’t going to make it easy.

One of the four men who stood up stepped around the table and shook White’s hand. “Sophia, nice to see you again. I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances. How is Robert? We must get together. I’ll talk with Pat and see if we can’t arrange a dinner some evening.”

“If you are referring to my husband, Walter, Roland’s fine. Thank you for asking. This is Detective Sergeant Jerome Baker from the Midtown Major Crimes Division. He’s one of the lead investigators on The Carma Klown case. Jerry, this is Walter Remington, of Remington, Palmer, and Associates.”

“Jerry!” Walter Remington greeted him like an old friend and cuffed him on the shoulder as they shook hands. “No need to introduce Sergeant Baker, Sophia. We’re old acquaintances. We met during the Carl Vincennes trial. I was lead counsel on that case.”

“Yes, Sir, I remember.” I remember you failed to shake my testimony, thought Baker. I also noticed that you misremembered Sophia’s husband name and Sophia seems not to want to get together with you and “Pat” for dinner. Baker took that as her comment on the sincerity of Remington’s attempt at friendliness.

Remington introduced the other three men who were standing. All were associates in his law firm. As each was introduced, he nodded. None offered to shake hands. They were bit players, Baker decided, of no importance to the meeting. They were simply there to emphasize the resources potentially available to Hainault.

Hainault himself paid no attention to the preliminaries. He sat upright in his chair with his hands crossed on the table in front of him. He looked neither at White nor at Baker. Baker knew from the case files that Hainault was 72 and a billionaire who had parlayed a sizable inheritance into what Forbes ranked as the twelfth largest fortune in the United States by buying up companies, gutting them, and then selling the remains. The whiteness of his hair emphasized the faultless tan of his face. Hainault’s suit alone, Baker estimated, probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.

Remington motioned White and Baker into chairs on the opposite side of the table. The chairs were as opulent as the table. Baker mentally compared it to his office chair, whose leatherette seat cover was cracked and torn. Everything about the room shrieked wealth and expense. An enormous Turkish carpet covered most of the floor. The painting that hung on the wall at the foot of the table looked liked it should be hanging in a museum. Baker assumed that it wasn’t a copy. The receptionist busied herself at a silver coffee service and then placed cups of coffee in front of Baker and White. After checking that none of the attorneys wanted more coffee, she left. The door made no noise as it closed behind her.

Baker examined each of Hainault’s lawyers. They had the sleek, polished appearance of men who could afford a crew of assistants to keep them looking good. Other people had decided what tie they should wear, how they should cut their hair, what style of shoe they should put on their feet—people who knew how to tailor a suit so that a narrow band of shirt cuff extended from the sleeve of the suit jacket, people who knew how to shave someone so as to leave the person’s face smooth and unmarked, people who knew what type of briefcase stated that the person carried it was important.

He instinctively disliked them. They would smell subtly of talcum powder and the cologne of privilege. Their contempt for him and White was obvious. He was just an ignorant cop, and she had to work in the DA’s office because, unlike them, she wasn’t good enough to get a job in a law firm where summer interns earned more than assistant district attorneys. Outwitting him and White was, they had decided, not a challenge, unworthy of their talents, something that could be done with half a mind on the task.

Baker knew that he had to suppress his feelings toward them. He couldn’t let them distract him from his job—getting Hainault to cooperate in the investigation. He put on his best poker face and directed it toward Hainault. He would ignore the flunkies. They were irrelevant, minor obstacles to be pushed aside.

“Mr. Hainault,” White began, “on behalf of the District Attorney’s Office and the Police Department, I would like to thank you for . . .”

“Sophia, pardon me for interrupting. I have a statement to read on Mr. Hainault’s behalf. It will make his position clear and speed matters along. I’m sure that all of us would like to get back to productive work as soon as possible.” Remington opened a black leather folder and pulled out three sheets of paper. He handed two of them to the associate sitting beside him, who stood up and walked around the table. Remington began to read as soon as his assistant placed a copy in front of both Baker and White.

“Our client, Mr. Malcolm Hainault, is always happy to assist the police and the District Attorney in their enquiries. He has, however, no knowledge of the man known as The Carma Klown and, to the best of his recollection, he in no way contributed to or participated in the making of the video that purports to show him engaging in certain acts. He further denies the admissions of guilt spoken by the actor who impersonated him in the video. . . .”

The letter continued for another hundred words or so, all of them disavowing any connection between Hainault and the video. When Remington finished reading the letter, he returned his copy to the leather folder and placed his hands on top of it.  He was about to speak when Baker interrupted.

“You would have no memory of it, Sir,” Baker spoke directly to Hainault, ignoring the immediate protests of the phalanx of lawyers surrounding him. “All the participants in the videos, both the victims and the other actors, were drugged. We have found remnants of the narcotic commonly known as ‘roofies’ in their blood. You may not be familiar with this drug, but it renders people extremely compliant and ready to do whatever they are told. Most people have no memory of what they did while they were under the influence. So far The Carma Klown has kidnapped and drugged five of your colleagues in the financial world, six other men who have as yet not been identified, and two policemen. He made them perform unspeakable acts, ones every decent person finds abhorrent. None of them participated willingly in making the videos or remembers anything. When we find the Klown, he will be charged with kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, and the administration of a listed narcotic for starters. The District Attorney will undoubtedly add other charges. Two of the fourteen men who appeared in the videos have committed suicide out of shame. One of those men—John Rossiter—had a background similar to yours. You may well have known him or the other victims. The more evidence we can uncover about the Klown’s activities, the faster we will be able to put a stop to him. The more people who step forward to testify against him, the greater the likelihood that the DA will be able to get a conviction.”

Hainault had sat impassively throughout Baker’s speech, neither making eye contact nor indicating in any manner that he was listening. It was only when he mentioned Rossiter’s and Milowski’s suicides that Hainault looked up and met Baker’s eyes. The thought of suicide disturbs him, thought Baker. It’s my entry. Absolve him of all responsibility, direct his anger at The Carma Klown, make him feel the pain.

“I know that you do not remember taking part in the video. I cannot begin to appreciate what it must feel like to know that other people think that is you in that video and that you are willingly and enthusiastically performing those awful acts. I am told that John Rossiter was a decent man, a loving husband, a good father.” (Actually it had become clear to Baker that Rossiter was a bastard devoted only to increasing his power and wealth.) “The Carma Klown, not Rossiter, decided what Rossiter, would do on that video. That wasn’t the real John Rossiter on that video, but it’s what people will remember about him because this bastard drugged him and forced him to engage in those disgusting activities. We can only imagine the anguish that led him to put a gun to his forehead and shoot himself. . . .”

“Sergeant Baker—Jerry—I must protest.” Remington cut in. “Mr. Hainault has said that he did not participate in making the video and has no knowledge of The Carma Klown other than what he has heard on the television or read in the newspapers or heard as gossip. He would be only too happy to assist you in your investigations if he could . . .”

“Walter,” Hainault spoke for the first time. “I would like to hear the rest of what Sergeant Baker has to say.”

“Malcolm, I must caution you against saying anything that would entangle you further in this case. If the police do catch this man and he is brought to trial, his lawyers will use any statement you make against you. You will end up on trial instead of The Carma Klown.”

“I knew John Rossiter. He was a good man, a decent man.” Hainault spoke to Baker for the first time. “I understand that one of your colleagues also killed himself.”

“Yes, Officer Frank Milowski.” Baker tried to put as much regret as possible into his voice. The first feelings Hainault had shown indicated an empathy for the two men who had committed suicide. He wanted Hainault to identify with them. It was a wedge and he knew immediately that he had to exploit it.

“Malcolm, I must insist that you let me speak for you.” Remington stood up. “Sophia, Jerry, this meeting is at an end. I will protest formally to both of your supervisors about the way that you have taken advantage of Mr. Hainault’s patience and hospitality to question him about matters that he has no knowledge of. Hamilton, please escort Mrs. White and Sergeant Baker out.”

As one of the assistants leaped to his feet, Hainault said, “Sit down. Or, rather, don’t sit down. Walter, I think Ms White, Sergeant Baker, and I can continue on our own without your and your colleagues’ able assistance.”

“Malcolm, I must caution you against such a move. The police are notorious for twisting an innocent person’s statements. We are here to advise you and prevent you from . . .”

“Your indignation is noted, Walter. It is also unnecessary.”

“Malcolm, if I am indignant, it is because I am here to protect your interests.”

“Walter, you are a lawyer. Your indignation is purchased by the hour. In fact, all your services are purchased by the hour, a trait your profession shares with another of the oldest professions in the world.”

Hainault must have signaled his secretary, for she appeared in the doorway as he was speaking. “Lydia, please show Mr. Remington and his colleagues out.”

Remington continued to protest. His sputtering was cut short by Hainault. “Walter, that is enough. I will speak with you later.”

When the lawyers had left, Hainault walked over to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. He held the pot up, querying whether Baker or White wanted a refill. When they shook their heads no, he pulled a chair out on their side of the table and sat down facing them. “I will do everything I can to help the investigation. I want this man punished for what he did to me, and to the others. Unfortunately the statement Walter Remington read is partially correct. I have no memory of the video.”

Sophia White spoke up, “Mr. Hainault, the statement Walter prepared for you denied any involvement in the making of the video.”

“A more correct statement would be that I have no memory of participating in the making of the video. My body, however, bears unmistakable proof that I was involved.”

“You refer to the Carma Klown tattoo?”

“Yes, Sergeant Baker. I have been undergoing laser treatments to remove it. Unfortunately, there are still traces. The one thing I am thankful for is that this madman did not make me reveal my address and invite anyone who wanted to, to drop by as he did with John Rossiter. At least I was spared that humiliation.”

In the end, Hainault could not add much other than an admission of his appearance in the video. He could recollect nothing about the making of the video. His appointments log for the night on which the video had likely been made showed only that he had left his office to return home around 7:30. To his recollection, he and his wife had eaten dinner and then gone to bed as usual around 11:00. Both of them had awoken around 6:30. His chauffeur had driven him to the office just after 8:00, and he had worked until around 10:00 when his wife had called. She had seen the video and was disturbed and distraught. A copy of the video had also been delivered to his office. He viewed it for the first and only time that morning. His response had been to summon his lawyers.