18

The search of Hansen’s house was not going as planned. The troopers were methodical in their approach, all right, but they hadn’t found anything that would convict a man of murder. Behind the headboard of the waterbed he shared with his wife, they found an aviation map. Nothing too startling about that—the man was a pilot.

Elsewhere in the house they found what appeared to be a disguise kit, complete with phony mustache, skin adhesive and a bottle of fingernail polish. They also found some Ace bandages, like the one found on Sherry Morrow’s body up on the Knik. Most revealing, behind some dirty clothes in a cabinet they found a sack full of cash, complete with bakery receipts. As the search continued, they found other sacks, also filled with cash. Hansen was an embezzler. It was hard to say who would be more excited—Flothe or the IRS.

Although all this could plainly help build a case against Hansen, it still wasn’t much. No one from the DA’s office would take it as evidence of murder, nor should they. What they hadn’t found was more important.

They hadn’t found any of the mementos, for instance—not the gold arrowhead necklace that had belonged to Sherry Morrow, not the gold nugget jewelry they’d also expected to find. Nor had they found any stash of women’s clothing or newspaper articles about the crimes. Worse yet there was no sign of the murder weapon, although they found a treasure trove of weapons, many of which they suspected were stolen.

In the living room closet, they found a Ted Williams 20 gauge shotgun. In the garage, they found a .270 bolt-action rifle, a Browning .22 rifle, a Browning .22 semi-automatic rifle, a Colt Match .22 semi-automatic pistol, and a Colt Python .357 revolver. In the hidden cabinet in the family room, they found, among other items, a Ruger .243 pistol and a Savage rifle. There was also an old .35 Remington with slide-pump action, a Remington automatic shotgun, a Remington WingMaster shotgun, a 12-gauge shotgun, and an Ithaca 20 gauge shotgun.

None of these weapons came even close to matching the .223 shell casing they’d found in the Knik River graves. They expected to find a semi-automatic rifle of that caliber—where was it? They hadn’t even found the Thompson Contender pistol that Officer Baker of APD had seen during the initial investigation of the Larson case.

Flothe was bluffing when he told Hansen the FBI had matched the Knik River shells to his weapon. Had Hansen seen through it? He sure hadn’t broken down, if that’s what they wanted him to do.

As the morning stretched to noon, the troopers at Hansen’s home became more and more worried. Was it possible he had destroyed important evidence? Had he spotted the surveillance and ditched everything they hoped to find? The importance of finding the murder weapon, for example, could not be overestimated. If they could find it, and if a shell fired from it matched the shell casings at the Knik, then the troopers were a long way to proving Hansen was the responsible party.

Two hours passed, but seemed longer. Galyan and Flothe were by now bearing in on an area of considerable concern: Establishing the fact that Hansen had been on the stretch of the Knik where the bodies were found. Hansen freely admitted that he’d been there.

“I don’t deny I’ve been up and down the Knik River from one end to the other many, many times,” Hansen admitted. “I’ve set traps up and down that river, my gosh, for years and years and years. I’ve gone out there rabbit hunting with many, many people. I’ve shot bow out there many times. I’ve set bear stands out there. I’ve target practiced up and down the river. They’ve got some beautiful sand bars out there. It’s the most beautiful place in the world to practice your takeoffs, landings, short field work…”

“What weapons have you fired out there, Bob?” Flothe asked.

“.243, .270, .223, .338, .22, shotguns—you can just about name it and I’ve shot it out there.”

Under questioning Hansen said he had been up on the Knik that fall, duck hunting with his son. He also said he’d been there during the summer. Where had he fired his .223 during that time? Flothe asked. On a map, Hansen pointed to a big, flat territory to the west of the old Knik River bridge.

“There’s some islands here,” he said, pointing to the same spot. “Green islands in through here. I’ve gone on the banks there and shot into those banks along here many, many times. At some spots up there I’ve gone and put stuff in the river, you know, and flown over and tried to shoot at them to practice for wolf hunting…”

“Oh, you’ve shot from the air?” Flothe asked, only half believing.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve shot from the air,” Flothe said again, sardonically. “I didn’t realize you’ve done that. I have a more specific map of this area here. Hold it down. This is an aerial photograph. There’s a bunch of little numbers on here and I can—I can explain some things to you afterwards, but let’s do this in relation to the map you have in your hand now. Can you help me out?”

“By number three here?” Hansen said, pointing to the aerial map. “I’ve shot along these banks in here many times, because it’s a good place to shoot, because you’ve got some good flat banks in here.”

“Uh huh,” Flothe acknowledged.

“You can throw balloons in the water and when you shoot, you can see where your bullets are striking.”

“This is from the aircraft flying over?” Flothe asked, still dubious.

“Yes. In the wintertime, I shoot wolves an awful lot.”

“Describe your .223 to me,” Flothe said suddenly. “I am not over at the house now. Describe it to me.”

“Just a normal .223. The old—there’s only one model that I know of.”

“Well, there’s quite a few different models. There’s, you know, there’s M-16’s, which are fully automatic,” Flothe pointed out. “There’s AR-15’s…”

“Mini-14’s…” Galyan added.

“14,” Hansen responded, indicating that was the model he was familiar with.

“Okay, the Mini-14. And this is the one you’re talking about?” Flothe asked. “You practiced dry runs, like shooting wolves, is that what you’re talking about?”

“The reason I’m practicing here is to shoot wolves.”

“And you’ve hunted in that area?” Flothe asked.

“Oh, yes. Here. You can see this-here river here, how flat it is. We put balloons out there. If you hit one, of course, it bursts. If not, you can see.”

Both Flothe and Galyan had trouble suppressing their skepticism. Here was a man accused of murder, a man who now had to suspect that his shell casings were on the Knik, and he was trying to wriggle out of it by suggesting that he’d been up there shooting at balloons while flying a plane.

After several minutes of listening to him explain it, of listening to him talk about all the places he’d hunted, and who he hunted with, Galyan decided to bore in again. “Glenn,” he asked Flothe, “do you have that picture of Sherry?”

“Um hum,” Flothe responded. But he had an agenda of his own. “Do you have a problem with your knee?” he asked Hansen.

“Do I have a problem with my knee?”

“Yeah, a problem with your knee, your leg?”

“I got cartilages torn out of both knees. I used to play quite a bit of softball and I tore up the cartilage in my knees.”

“What do you use an Ace bandage for?” Flothe asked.

“To have with me, mainly; if I throw either knee out, boy they are so doggone sore I can hardly get them straightened out. But if I can wrap them real tight, I can still motivate with them, you know. I have Ace bandages around home by the jillion.”

As Hansen talked, Flothe retrieved the photograph of Sherry Morrow. When he found it, he propped it up in front of Hansen. He wanted him to keep looking at her until he saw her.

“Who is that?” Hansen asked.

“That leads me to Sherry Morrow,” Galyan said. “She was found in a shallow grave down in the Knik. With an Ace bandage wrapped around her arms, or what was left of them. There was a .223 shell casing found in the grave.”

“Yeah.”

“The shell casing in the grave of Sherry’s was identical in extractor markings and fire pin markings to the shell casing we found in Paula Goulding’s grave,” Galyan continued.

“The shell casing is in the grave,” Flothe added. “It is not lying on top of the ground where it would fall like flying over in an aircraft or firing in the area. It is in the grave with the body.”

“Um.”

“And that shell casing is from the same gun that the shell casing from Paula’s is from,” Galyan said. “See where we’re coming from?”

“Um hum.”

“Do you know where that puts you, Bob?” Galyan asked.

“You’re saying that’s out of my gun? Bullshit. It’s not.”

“But we need some explanations…” Galyan said.

“I never shot these people,” Hansen insisted. “I never intentionally hurt anybody in my life, and that’s the truth.”

“You’re not telling me the truth, Bob,” Galyan said in his most forthright manner. “You’re making yourself look worse all the time.”

“Look, I can’t help that. I’m telling you the truth right now.”

“You’re not telling the truth.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I don’t want to hear it, ‘cause you just keep making yourself look like more the hardened criminal type,” Galyan said.

“Where did you meet this girl?” Flothe asked, directing attention to the photo of Sherry Morrow. “Where did you meet her?”

“Ah, I’ve never met her.”

“You have never met this girl before in your whole entire life? You have never had sex with her?”

“No, I sure haven’t.”

“How about this girl here—Miss Goulding?” Flothe asked, going back to her photograph. “Did you ever have physical contact with her at all, between yourself and her person, have sex with her and talk to her, ever meet her in a bar?”

“Does she work in a bar?”

“Both these girls do.”

“It’s possible I seen ‘em in the bars.”

“Think about it. Look at the girls, and see if you recall having any contact, physical contact, where the hair would fall onto your clothing, the hair would be into your clothing…”

“No. I have never had any contact with these girls,” Hansen said with finality.

“So there’s no way your hair could be in their clothing, or on their person?” Galyan asked.

“That’s right.”

“And their hair could not be in your vehicle or your house, or anyplace else, is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“That includes any other girls you’ve ever been with?” Flothe asked.

“Now—what do you mean by that? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Explain to me, please.”

“You mentioned a minute ago, you don’t pick up girls all the time. How often do you pick up girls? How often do you have this urge?”

“I can see right now everything I say, you people are going to try to turn around. Look, I have never seen those girls. As far as going out and picking girls up all the time, I don’t do it. I ain’t got time to do it.”

During Bob Hansen’s interview, Flothe was in and out of the room, communicating with the troopers at Hansen’s house. He was naturally very much concerned about what was found in the residence—it was one of the three pillars upon which their case against Hansen stood.

Now the whole edifice seemed shaky. Flothe and Galyan weren’t getting anywhere with Hansen. The alibi witness still hadn’t been found. And very little linking him to the crimes had been found at the house on Old Harbor Drive.

The bold gamble seemed to be failing spectacularly. At least he was still talking to them, not asking for a lawyer yet. But if something was going to break, it appeared it would have to be Hansen.

Flothe had two tacks to follow. First, he had just received a package of evidence from the search of the suspect’s house. He would confront him with that very evidence. He would also make a pointed inquiry about the kinds of guns Bob Hansen owned—and where he kept them. If there was one message coming from the Hansen home, it was this: Find out where he hid the .223.

Back in the interview room, Flothe casually plopped an odd assortment of trick store items on the table. The ante had just been upped. “What do you use this disguise kit for?” Flothe asked. “Mustaches and all that stuff?”

“I was going to try to see if it would work,” Hansen deadpanned. “I’m just curious.”

“Disguise for what reason?” Flothe demanded. “Enhance your appearance or…?”

“Well, I’m not the most handsome guy in the world,” Hansen said. “I thought it would be easier—as a matter of fact, I even tried to grow one for awhile. I could never…I make…could never grow one.”

“Fingernail polish?” Flothe asked.

“Fingernail polish?”

“Is your wife aware that you have this stuff?”

“I don’t know if she knows I have the fingernail polish.”

“Mustache?”

“Huh. I just more or less wanted to see what I would look like with one on. And I tried to put one on one time and they give me some goop to smear on my lip and stick it on with and, ah, I put it on for five minutes and itched so goddamn much that I never tried it again. I tried to grow one here. As a matter of fact, I grew one for about six or eight months or something. I got a funny lip—that one grows out and this one comes out and twirls one way and one wants to twirl down…”

“List the weapons that you own,” Flothe said, rapidly shifting gears. “Describe them to me—all of them. You’re a gun collector. I’m sure you’ll know each and every one of your weapons. You’re an avid hunter.”

“Okay. To start, I got a .270 model, pre-‘64 model, okay? I got ah, ah, Ruger #1. That’s a single shot.”

“Can you describe where these weapons are? Each weapon as you describe them.”

“All right. They’re in my gun case in the—well, not a case. I got one wall where it’s—it’s built out and you can take off the panels. You can get into it, okay?”

For the next several minutes, Hansen described in great detail almost every gun and rifle he owned. He even mentioned the .22 single shot he bought for his daughter when she took a firearm safety course, and how she won a trophy at one of the matches held by the sponsoring organization. The list of weapons seemed endless. But Hansen was holding something back.

“There’s one gun we’ve talked about that you haven’t described,” Flothe finally pointed out.

“The .225,” Hansen volunteered, getting the caliber wrong. “I think it’s just down in that compartment down there, too. If I remember right. I can’t remember where they’re all sitting at.”

“Do you have any at your cabin?” Flothe asked.

“Don’t have a cabin.”

“Isn’t there a cabin that you usually fly to? A friend’s cabin?”

“No,” Hansen responded. So now Flothe knew. When Hansen had told the dancers he was taking them to his cabin, he was just saying it to put them at ease.

“What do you use the surgical gloves for?” Flothe continued.

“Surgical gloves?”

“Um hum.”

“Don’t have any surgical gloves. I got some rubber gloves that I use when I am staining some horns. you know how you get some stain from the taxidermist and put the new stain on the horns? Why, that stuff, you get it on your hands—I got food color on there now—but boy, you get this stuff on, and you got it for three weeks before you can get the damn stuff off your skin. Ah, that’s the only gloves that are surgical or rubber-type gloves.”

In the next few minutes Flothe and Galyan punched and counter-punched their man with questions. It was time, they decided, to hit him with everything. They asked, for instance, about the burglary at his house, where all his prized hunting trophies were stolen.

Hansen was surprisingly forthright, telling the officers that his wife came home one day and found some of them in their back yard. He also told the officers that his insurance company had paid him about $12,000—and that he did not report the return of the items to the insurance company.

“Do you plan on paying them back?” Flothe asked.

“Oh yes.”

“You realize that you can turn the items over to the insurance company, because they actually belong to the insurance company,” Galyan added.

“Well, whatever.”

Then they asked him about the cabin burglaries. Did he have a chain saw he’d taken out of a cabin in the Talkeetna area? Or weapons he’d taken from cabins that might have been unlocked or appeared abandoned? Did he have anything in his home that could have come from a cabin out there? Hansen denied having stolen anything. Flothe knew better.

Troopers had already found what they thought was a robbery victim’s Homelite chain saw in the shed behind Hansen’s house. Beside it was another suspicious chain saw—and a portable generator. That wasn’t all.

They found a C.B. radio in the garage, next to a G.E. radio. And a Sears battery-charger. And a forty-pound propane cylinder by the loading bench. In the family room, moreover, they found a suspicious Sears radio-tape player. All these items fit the description of those reported stolen in the Talkeetna burglaries—they had already started to match the serial numbers.

There was no doubt that Hansen was lying to them, and both Galyan and Flothe let him know as much. They also told him that they couldn’t figure him out, couldn’t determine whether he was a man who needed help or a man who didn’t want any.

“Surely you don’t think that we went through all the time and money and the man hours that it took to do the research on this—that we just did it for drill?” Galyan said.

“No, I…”

“It’s serious, Bob.”

“Yeah, it’s serious. You damn right it’s serious, but ah…”

“I don’t see any remorse.”

“The main thing that you’re interested in is these girls. And I didn’t do away with these girls, no.”

Flothe’s frustration was starting to show through. No matter what they confronted Hansen with, he covered it up with the most disingenuous explanations. Flothe cynically concluded Hansen would probably deny he’d ever been born.

“You’ve definitely convinced me today,” he said in exasperation, “that you don’t have an I.Q. of 91, as indicated in some of these reports. You’re a very intelligent man. Very intelligent man. Very manipulative man. You are and you know it yourself. But you’re a man that cannot face himself, and you’re older than I am. You cannot even admit a little piece of guilt regarding anything. You have not shown any remorse to me at all today. No great sadness for what happened in the past. It’s all a coincidence. Am I wrong?”

“No. No. I just—I don’t know if you were in the room or not, and I told this gentleman here that I’m sorry for some of the things in my past that have happened. I wish they had never happened and I would do anything in the world if I could rectify that they had happened. But I can’t change the past…” A knock on the door came as welcome relief from this pageant of deception. It was the secretary, bringing news.

“Sergeant McCann wants to talk to you, sir,” she told Sergeant Flothe.

“Okay,” Flothe said, momentarily not knowing what to make of the information. Though he had been waiting for the call, it still caught him off guard. He looked distracted as he walked to the phone, then cradled it tentatively when he picked up the receiver. Maybe that was because the last thing he wanted was more bad news.