For cops, an unsurprising facet of dealing with criminals on a daily basis is the unpredictability of the people who associate with them and the darkly arousing attraction some of those people harbor.
By the end of June, articles in the local newspapers were speculating that Evans was responsible for not one or two murders, but three. If this was true, and he had killed these men over a period of fourteen years, he was considered, by sheer definition, a serial killer—a brand that would bring a fleeting moment of fame to him almost immediately. Soon, letters from well-wishers—mostly females—came pouring into the jail as though it were Christmas and Evans was Santa Claus.
There was one particular letter that set Evans off on a tangent. It was from a young woman he had dated briefly in 1988. Ten years later, here she was writing to say it had “surprised” her to see his name and photo in the newspaper, but—at the same time—seeing his face had stirred up old memories.
I have to admit, you cross my mind every now and again, she wrote.
They had met at a pool hall. The woman, married at the time, complained she was being abused by her husband. Being a young mother, she told Evans it was difficult to leave the man because he provided for her and the kids.
Evans’s suggestion? A night of sex with him.
They had shared, the woman wrote, a common love for painting, being creative, the arts and the Allman Brothers Band. Her fondest memory was of spending a weekend with Evans in Latham at Cocco’s Bar. They laughed. They joked. They played pool. They had “marathon sex.” Life was good. Exciting. She had forgotten about her abusive husband.
A week or so after that, Evans told her he didn’t want to see her anymore. She had become a number on a long list of females he had used over the years specifically for sex.
In her letter, she went on to explain how it had hurt her when he told her he didn’t want to see her again. At the same time, though, she wanted to let him know now—ten years later—that she had always thought he was “kind, gentle, understanding, and a great listener.” Because of the time they had spent together, the woman wrote, she ultimately developed the courage to leave her abusive husband and had been totally indebted to Evans all these years for giving her the guts to do it.
At the bottom of the letter, in large black scribbling, Evans had written, Leave me alone! I love [Doris Sheehan]. Then he put the letter back in the envelope and wrote, Return to sender on the front. He had told Horton Sheehan was the only woman he had ever truly loved.
The message never reached the woman, however, because it was intercepted by Horton.
Doris Sheehan, a woman Evans had professed his love for throughout the past ten years or more, was someone Horton hadn’t thought could help him much. “I considered her just another one of Gary’s bimbos…. He had lots of them.”
Horton and Evans had discussed Doris, and it seemed that whenever Evans ended up in jail, the one person he worried most about disappointing was Doris. In several of the letters he had written to Horton, Evans was always firm about his instructions for contacting Doris.
Tell her I love her, he wrote once. Tell her not to worry about me. She is the only one I have ever loved.
Inside the backpack the Bureau found on Evans in Vermont were a half-dozen Polaroid photographs of Doris. Sitting clothed, in various positions on a porch and next to a tree, her long mane of brown hair brushing over her shoulders and rather large breasts, Doris smiled for Evans as he photographed her. She appeared happy and seductive, relishing the attention Evans was giving her.
In the grand scheme of things, as Horton paced the hallway outside Evans’s holding cell in Albany County Court, waiting for the marshals to release him, he thought about how he could use Doris as an asset. Bringing up Lisa Morris, Horton knew, was out of the question; she was the scapegoat, the person Evans could place the blame on for being captured. But Doris…she could be a bargaining tool; someone Horton could use to make Evans feel more comfortable.
Taking out his cell phone, Horton dialed his office and told Chuck DeLuca to find out where Doris Sheehan was. “I’m going to need her today.”
The purpose behind interrogating Evans was to get him to give up Falco, Cuomo and Rysedorph. There was, really, no other reason to speak to him, at least not right away. As an experienced interrogator and former polygraphist, Horton knew he had to provide friendship and comfort to Evans if he expected to get anything out of him. He couldn’t just sit him down and begin pressuring him to talk. Evans needed to direct the interview. It was the only way.
Only a few hours after Evans had waived his Miranda rights in front of Judge Breslin, a pair of marshals brought him out and indicated to Horton that he could take him.
Everyone involved, including Horton’s own investigators, thought he was crazy for transporting Evans by himself. They were concerned Evans might try something. Branded an escape risk most of his criminal life, Evans was now facing the most serious time of his career. What did he have to lose?
“I wasn’t worried, for the most part,” Horton said later. “Gary had always said he would never do anything to hurt my career, and I trusted him, as he also trusted me.”
Still, it wasn’t such a bad idea to bring along someone else for the ride to Troop G in Loudonville, which was about fifteen minutes away.
During the ride, Evans sat in the backseat with one of Horton’s investigators while Horton drove. Staring out the window, watching freedom pass him by, Evans whimpered and sulked, as if he were a child on his way to reform school.
“Are you hungry, Gar?” Horton asked at one point.
Evans, shrugging, said, “I guess.”
“Good. Let me stop and get you something.”
After stopping at a convenience store to pick up a box of Freihofer’s chocolate-chip cookies and a gallon of milk, Horton brought Evans up into the “polygraph suite” on the second floor of Troop G, the same room where Lisa Morris had given her statement. There was only one way into the room, through a hallway door, yet two ways out: the door and window.
Playing it safe, Horton left Evans handcuffed.
Approaching a project of such magnitude, questioning Evans about several murders, could only be done in steps. Getting Evans back to Albany from Vermont had been the beginning; putting him before a judge to waive his rights was a good start; while getting him to confess, which could take days, maybe even weeks, was the pot of gold. Horton had waited eight months for this day.
As they were getting comfortable, Evans mentioned that he had one request, and he wasn’t prepared to talk about anything until it was granted.
“What’s that, Gar?”
“I want to see Doris.”
Horton, without showing Evans, smiled. Still, it wasn’t going be easy. Doris, Horton had found out, was herself doing time in a Troy, New York, jail for a DWI.
“Let me see what I can do,” Horton said, leaving the room for a moment.
Horton had to find a second judge, Pat McGrath, and get him to sign an order enabling Doris to leave the jail she was in.
Within a few hours, Horton received permission from Judge McGrath to transport Doris to Troop G, which only added to the public pressure he already faced regarding his getting a confession out of Evans.
Sully picked Doris up and brought her to Troop G, where Evans was now sitting, like a child on a snack break, dunking chocolate-chip cookies into a glass of cold milk.
Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, Doris looked as well as could be expected, considering she was doing time in one of the toughest jails in the Troy-Albany region. She had even managed to lose a bit of weight. Evans, when he first laid eyes on her, perked up.
Horton made it clear he would not allow them to touch each other. There was no way he was going to step out of the room and leave them alone, not with three murders hanging over Evans’s head.
After a brief hug, Doris pulled up a chair next to Evans and sat down.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Horton said, staring at them.
Evans began pleading with Doris not to worry about him. “I’ll be okay,” he kept repeating. “Don’t worry about me. Please don’t.”
Doris, who hadn’t said much of anything since entering the room, finally spoke up. “I’m not worried, Gary.”
“She was bland and kind of unemotional,” Horton said later. “I had always heard from various individuals that she was nothing but a gold digger and hung around with Gary only because he had always given her expensive gifts.
“I’m sitting there listening to Gary tell her how much he loves her…. He’s pleading with her, pouring his heart out, telling her not to worry about him. She just shrugged it off, like she didn’t give a shit. I’m thinking, ‘You bitch…at least pretend to be worried about him.’”
For the next three hours, Horton sat and watched Evans talk to Doris. At one point, they asked if Horton could take them outside so Doris could smoke. So he handcuffed them together and took them out behind the back of barracks near a grassy, picnic area. He had two investigators, sporting shotguns, stand nearby, but otherwise let them sit and enjoy what little sunshine was left to the day.
“I was chomping at the bit to get him to talk about Tim, Cuomo and Falco, but I had to play his game.”