Not long after Evans had been pronounced dead at the scene by Dr. Barbara Wolf, a renowned forensic pathologist who freelanced for the Albany County Coroner’s Office, Horton made a decision to leave the scene.
“Dozens of cops were trying to be a part of it,” he said later, “who absolutely had no legitimate purpose for being there. The press were really hounding me. Civilians were rubbernecking and gawking. I couldn’t take it anymore. My beeper was going off nonstop.”
Horton’s mother had been home watching television when she heard the news and immediately paged him to see how he was holding up.
“Hello, Ma.”
She said she only wanted to know one thing: “How do you feel about what’s happened?”
“Not sure,” Horton said. “I don’t feel anything, actually.”
“Ambivalent,” she said with an influence only a mother could evoke. “You feel ambivalent. That’s good. That’s how you should feel.”
After speaking to his mother, Horton turned off his pager, found Jack Murray and Bud York, and said, “Get me outta here.”
When it came down to it, there was no reason for Horton to stay at the scene. What was done, was done. From there, it was paperwork, questions and, hopefully, answers.
The autopsy was another matter. Horton insisted he be present for it. It would be a while, Barbara Wolf said, but she would see that it was done that night.
By nature, an autopsy is designed to clear up any unanswered questions. But Horton and Barbara Wolf were about to learn that Evans’s autopsy would only unearth new questions about Gary Evans and how he had managed to escape under the radar of four armed U.S. Marshals.
From the death scene at the bridge, Horton, York and Murray drove into downtown Troy and stopped at a local pub to get something to eat and, deservedly, a stiff drink.
Nobody in the bar knew who they were, but the crowd was glued to the television, hanging on every detail about the Evans escape that was slowly trickling out. Incredibly, not three hours after Evans had been pronounced dead, the bar was pushing a drink it called “Gary on the Rocks.” Vodka, cranberry juice and ice. The dark red cranberry juice, Horton learned by reading the chalkboard announcing the new special as you walked into the bar, represented the blood of Troy’s most famous serial killer.
When he read it, Horton’s appetite diminished. Additionally, he felt the need to be doing other things back at work, including talking to his bosses and preparing to attend Evans’s autopsy. A neighborhood bar seemed like the last place in the world he should be.