Chapter 46
GARY SONEJI/MURPHY was remanded to Lorton Federal Prison in the northern part of Virginia. We began hearing rumors that something had happened to him there, but no one from the Washington Police Department was allowed to see him. Justice and the FBI had him, and they weren’t letting go of their prize.
From the moment it was revealed that he was being kept at Lorton, the prison was picketed. The same thing had occurred when Ted Bundy was imprisoned in Florida. Men, women, and schoolchildren assembled outside the prison parking area. They chanted emotional slogans throughout the day and night. They marched and carried lighted candles and placards.
Where Is Maggie Rose? Maggie Rose Lives! The Beast of the East Must Die! Give the Beast the Chair or Life!
A week and a half after the capture, I went in to see Soneji/ Murphy. I had to call in every chip I had in Washington, but I got in to see him. Dr. Marion Campbell, the warden at Lorton, met me at a row of gunmetal elevators on the prison’s sixth floor, the hospital floor. Campbell was in his sixties. He was well preserved, with a flowing mane of black hair. He looked very Reaganesque.
“You’re Detective Cross?” He extended his hand and smiled politely.
“Yes. I’m also a forensic psychologist,” I explained.
Dr. Campbell seemed genuinely surprised by that information. Evidently, no one had told him. “Well, you certainly have some pull to get in to talk with him. It’s gotten rather complicated. Visiting rights with him are a precious commodity.”
“I’ve been involved with this since he took the two kids in Washington. I was there when he was caught.”
“Well, I’m not sure if we’re talking about the same man now,” Dr. Campbell said. He didn’t explain. “Is it Dr. Cross?” he asked.
“Doctor Cross, Detective Cross, Alex. You pick.”
“Please come with me, Doctor. You’re going to find this most interesting.”
Because of the gunshot wound Soneji got at McDonald’s, he was being kept in a private room in the prison hospital. Dr. Campbell led me down a wide corridor inside the hospital. Prisoners occupied every available room. Lorton’s a very popular place, long lines at the door. Most of the men were black. They ranged in age from as young as nineteen to their mid-fifties. They all tried to look defiant and tough, but that is a pose that doesn’t work well in a federal prison.
“I’m afraid I’ve become a little protective of him,” Campbell said as we walked. “You’ll see why in a moment. Everybody wants to, needs to, see him. I’ve received calls from all over the world. An author from Japan had to see him. A doctor from Frankfurt. Another from London. That sort of thing.”
“I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me about him, Doctor,” I finally said to Campbell. “What is it?”
“I want you to draw your own conclusions, Dr. Cross. He’s right here in this section near the main ward. I would very much like your opinion.”
We stopped at a bolted steel door in the hospital corridor. A guard let us through. Beyond the door were a few more hospital rooms, but rooms for maximum security.
A light burned brightly inside the first room. It wasn’t Soneji’s. He was in a darker room on the left. The regular prison visiting area had been ruled out because it offered too much exposure. Two guards with shotguns sat outside the room.
“Has there been any violence?” I asked.
“No, not at all. I’ll leave you two to talk. I don’t think you have to be concerned about any violence. You’ll see for yourself.”
Gary Soneji/Murphy watched us from his cot. His arm was in a sling. Otherwise, he looked the same as the last time I’d seen him. I stood inside the hospital room. When Dr. Campbell walked away, Soneji studied me. There was no sign of recognition from this man who’d threatened to kill me when we’d last met.
My first professional impression was that he seemed afraid to be left alone with me. His body language was tentative, very different from the man I’d wrestled to the ground at the McDonald’s in Wilkinsburg.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?” he finally said. His voice quivered slightly.
“I’m Alex Cross. We’ve met.”
He looked confused. The expression on his face was very believable, too. He shook his head and closed his eyes. It was an incredibly baffling and disconcerting moment for me.
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember you,” he said then. It seemed an apology. “There have been so many people in this nightmare. I forget some of you. Hello, Detective Cross. Please, pull up a chair. As you can see, I’ve had plenty of visitors.”
“You asked for me during the negotiations in Florida. I’m with the Washington police.”
As soon as I said that, he started to smile. He looked off to the side, and shook his head. I wasn’t in on the joke yet. I told him I wasn’t.
“I’ve never been to Florida in my life,” he said. “Not once.”
Gary Soneji/Murphy stood up from his cot. He was wearing loose-fitting hospital whites. His arm seemed to be giving him some pain.
He looked lonely, and vulnerable. Something was very wrong here. What in hell was going on? Why hadn’t I been told before I came? Evidently, Dr. Campbell wanted me to draw my own conclusions.
Soneji/Murphy sat down in the other chair. He stared at me with a baleful look.
He didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t look like a kidnapper. A teacher? A Mr. Chips? A lost little boy? All of those seemed closer to the mark.
“I’ve never spoken to you in my life,” he said to me. “I’ve never heard of Alex Cross. I didn’t kidnap any children. Do you know Kafka?” he asked.
“Some. What’s your point?”
“I feel like Gregor Samsa in Metamorphosis. I’m trapped in a nightmare. None of this makes any sense to me. I didn’t kidnap anyone’s children. Someone has to believe me. Someone has to. I’m Gary Murphy, and I never harmed anyone in my entire life.”
If I followed him, what he was telling me was that he was a multiple personality… truly Gary Soneji/ Murphy.
“But do you believe him, Alex? Jesus Christ, man. That’s the sixty-four-dollar question.”
Scorse, Craig, and Reilly from the Bureau, Klepner and Jezzie Flanagan from the Secret Service, and Sampson and I were in a cramped conference room at FBI headquarters downtown. It was old home week for the Hostage Rescue Team.
The question had come from Gerry Scorse. Not surprisingly, he didn’t believe Soneji/Murphy. He didn’t buy the multiple-personality bit.
“What does he really gain from telling a lot of outrageous lies?” I asked everyone to consider. “He says he didn’t kidnap the children. He says he didn’t shoot anyone at the McDonald’s.” I looked from face to face around the conference table. “He claims to be this pleasant enough nobody from Delaware named Gary Murphy.”
“Temp insanity plea.” Reilly offered the obvious. “He goes to some cushy asylum in Maryland or Virginia. Out in seven to ten years, maybe. You can bet he knows that, Alex. Is he clever enough, a good enough actor, to pull it off?”
“So far, I’ve spoken to him only once. Less than an hour with him. I’ll say this: he’s very convincing as Gary Murphy. I think he’s legitimately VFC.”
“What the hell is VFC?” Scorse asked. “I don’t know VFC. You’ve lost me.”
“It’s a common enough psych term,” I told him. “All of us shrinks talk about VFC when we get together. Very f*cking crazy, Gerry.”
Everybody around the table laughed except Scorse. Sampson had nicknamed him the Funeral Director—Digger Scorse. He was dedicated and professional, but usually not a lot of laughs.
“Very f*cking funny, Alex,” Scorse finally said. “That’s VFF.”
“Can you get in to see him again?” Jezzie asked me. She was as professional as Scorse, but a lot nicer to be around.
“Yeah, I can. He wants to see me. Maybe I’ll even find out why in hell he asked for me down in Florida. Why I’m the chosen one in his nightmare.”