Lisa Morris lived a life of solitude in a modest apartment that was, by sheer luck, only about two miles from Jim Horton’s home in Latham. Stopping by Lisa’s apartment and badgering her, Horton knew, was going to be the conduit to making contact with Evans.
The first few times Horton popped in, Lisa was passive, unfriendly, and perhaps a little scared. During a Bureau briefing one morning after Lisa’s name had been discovered, Horton told his investigators he had recognized her name as someone Evans had mentioned to him from time to time.
“Gary told me more than once that, in his words, Lisa was simply ‘someone he stopped by to fuck’ every once in a while. I had no reason not to believe him. Gary had a lot of those women in his life.”
The first thing Horton noticed when he knocked on Lisa’s door on October 15 was how homely her apartment, from the outside, looked. It wasn’t run-down, but, as Horton peered through the window, he could tell she hadn’t kept it up perhaps the way she could have. A cop is always studying people and places: body language, vocal characteristics, clothes, how someone walks, eye movement, the appearance of a home, car. Lisa spoke with a smoker’s raspy voice. She wore plain clothes and little makeup. She hadn’t really held down a full-time job, but would work occasionally as a process server, delivering subpoenas to people in civil cases.
It was obvious to Horton by just looking at her that first time that she liked to drink—a lot. She had bags under both eyes and loose, pale skin. She appeared lethargic, as if it had taken all of her energy just to answer the door.
“Paperboy,” Horton said as Lisa opened the door. He was holding a day-old newspaper he’d picked up on her front steps.
Without Horton saying anything more, the initial look Lisa held told him she knew exactly who he was and why he was there. Although Horton never openly wore a shield or flipped it out like television cops, he had a look about him that screamed law enforcement. It was something most cops couldn’t hide. They looked the part. What was more, he kept his handcuffs hanging not from his waist, but from the emergency brake lever in his cruiser, and hardly ever carried his weapon.
“I never wore those stupid tie tags—like a miniature silver or gold set of handcuffs, announcing that I was a cop,” Horton said later. “But it was written all over my face…and, of course, the blue suit. I certainly wasn’t a vacuum cleaner salesman.”
As Lisa invited Horton in and began to talk, he realized the connection she’d had with Evans ran deep and, most important, recent. There was no doubt she had seen Evans within the past few weeks.
“He’s talked about you,” Lisa said, adding, “I’ve heard your name before.”
“I need to know some things, Lisa.”
Within a few minutes, Horton learned that he and Lisa had more in common than just Gary Evans: their daughters attended the same school. Twelve-year-old Christina Morris, had gone to the same school as Horton’s daughter, Alison. They weren’t friends, but they knew each other.
Even more remarkable was who Christina’s father was.
“Damien Cuomo,” Lisa offered. Cuomo was one of Evans’s “business partners.” He had been missing since 1989. Horton had no idea Lisa even knew Cuomo.
Horton sat back for a moment, took a breath. It was all beginning to make sense.
“Let me get this straight: Damien Cuomo is your daughter’s father?”
“Yes,” Lisa said, surprised as to why Horton seemed so shocked.
More evidence to Horton that Cuomo, Falco and Tim Rysedorph were dead—and that Evans had killed them.
“It just all made sense to me at that moment,” Horton recalled later. “What had been a hunch for years turned into a fact for me.”
The apartment complex where Lisa lived was located on a patch of land in back of a strip mall on Route 155 in Latham. A second-story unit, her apartment had two bedrooms, a small living room, eat-in kitchen, and a sliding door that walked out to a small deck. It wasn’t a penthouse, but the school district for Christina was considered one of the best in the state and the apartment was affordable.
Evans liked the location because he could park his truck in the parking lot of T.J. Maxx, a retail clothing store located in the strip mall adjacent to Lisa’s door, when he wanted to pay her a visit. The apartment complex was directly to the northeast of the loading dock area of T.J. Maxx. Evans would park his vehicle in the front parking lot of the strip mall and blend it into the store’s parking lot of vehicles. It was just one more way for Evans to keep his whereabouts secret.
Every aspect of his life had been thought out with meticulous consideration. Even a seemingly innocent stop at a girlfriend’s house for “a piece of ass,” as Evans would jokingly put it, had to be planned with concerted effort to the finest detail—and Evans was a master at alluding authorities and tricking people into thinking he was somewhere other than where he was supposed to be. Being a criminal was his job, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Everything he did consisted of him snooping around, looking over his shoulder, covering his tracks. He had to, he later admitted to Horton, have a system in place for every part of his life, or he couldn’t function. One of his biggest fears about visiting Lisa was being bottled up at her apartment if push ever came to shove. If his truck were out in front of her apartment, he would have felt caged in. On foot, he believed, he could get away from any situation.
Scattered around Lisa’s apartment were ceramic elephants, statues, figurines and knickknacks of all types. In the ashtrays were butts from marijuana cigarettes. When Horton took it all in, he had no choice but to think that every antique in the apartment had been stolen by Evans and given to Lisa as a gift.
“I need to talk to Gary,” Horton said as Lisa continued to speak of menial, everyday things.
“I’m not sure where he is.”
“Listen, Lisa. I don’t know what Gary’s told you about me, but we go back a few years. I really need to find him.”
Horton brought the list from the prison with him, hoping to prove to Lisa that he wasn’t just making things up to further his agenda. He had no idea what kind of picture Evans had painted for Lisa of their relationship.
“You see,” Horton said, pointing to the list where his name had been written by Evans, “he doesn’t write that I’m a cop; he writes ‘friend’ next to my name, just like yours.”
Lisa appeared to ease up a bit, as though she had become unwillingly convinced she could trust Horton.
“I used to date Damien Cuomo,” Lisa said.
Horton explained how he knew the name and why it shocked him so much to hear that Lisa’s daughter had been fathered by Cuomo.
“Do you think Gary had anything to do with his disappearance—no one has seen Damien for almost ten years now?”
“No! He’s a piece of shit for leaving me high and dry with Christina. Fucking deadbeat dad is all he is.”
“You know that Gary and Damien are—” Horton didn’t even get a chance to finish what he was saying.
“Yes…I know they’re thieves,” Lisa said. “So what.”
Even though Horton thought there was a good chance Damien Cuomo was dead, he felt he needed to ask Lisa where she thought he was.
“I know exactly where he is,” Lisa said. She seemed mad, raising her voice and looking away. “He’s down in the Carolinas living it up!” She was convinced of it.
Over the course of the next ten minutes, Lisa confessed that she had been dating Evans on and off for about the past eight years, but had never visited him while he was in jail. It wasn’t something Evans wanted, she claimed. She talked about him as though he were some sort of Prince Charming who had saved her and Christina from the mess Damien Cuomo had left them in.
“I know Damien is on the run. He could have given himself up, done his time, and he could be sitting here right now with his daughter. But he left us instead! He never calls at Christmas, her birthday. Nothing. Thank God Gary came into our lives.”
After a few simple questions, Horton understood Lisa’s role in Evans’s life. Gary Evans never considered Lisa to be anything more than a “quick lay.” He felt nothing for her emotionally. He liked Christina, as he did most kids, and treated her with respect, but Lisa was a mere stepping-stone along his path of crime.
“Can you tell me when you saw Gary last?” Horton asked, ratcheting his voice up a level, letting Lisa know he was serious. It was time for answers. He didn’t want to mention the stolen antiques in the house or the marijuana she was obviously smoking, but felt she wasn’t being totally honest with him and would use it if he had to.
“Sunday…I saw him on Sunday,” Lisa said, putting her palm under her chin, cradling her head, staring at the floor.
“This past week? Or last week?” Horton asked. He then pulled out a small calendar and pointed to the past two Sundays. “Which one?”
Lisa put her finger on October 5.
“What time?”
“About nine-thirty in the morning.”
Evans had stopped by for about twenty minutes, she said. He was driving his green Toyota pickup.
“How was he?”
“Very scared…pale-looking.”
There was more, of course, but Lisa paused, stood up and walked around the living room. She realized she was letting Evans down by saying things she shouldn’t. Evans had warned her that Horton would be coming around.
“What did he say?” Horton asked.
“He told me that he had done something he was going to get caught for and didn’t want to go to jail for twenty-five years.” She sat back down.
“Is there anything else you can think of, Lisa? This is extremely important.”
Neither Horton nor Lisa had mentioned Tim Rysedorph’s name, which was the main purpose of Horton’s visit.
Lisa then got up off the couch again and walked toward the door. As she opened it, suggesting it was time for Horton to leave, she said, “Gary told me he would contact me.”
“When?” Horton asked as he walked over the threshold.
Lisa smiled as she closed the door. “In a few years.”