The Serial Killer Convention 1/4
A square-built man was bearing down on me at great speed, veins pulsing on his big bald head. I was being given the full New York cop, and I couldn’t handle it.
Sometime in the mid Aughts I spent several weeks crossing the USA filming screen tests. On a bright weekend in April I checked into a massive casino on a reservation in New England.
I was scouting for forensic scientists and cops to host a TV show about future advances in crime solving, and this gaudy location was the bait. An expert witness in a trial of the last century was holding his annual symposium for US law enforcement. This year the chosen theme was the evergreen subject of serial killers, and I was hoping that among the list of speakers and attendees I might find myself a shiny new star.
The resort attracted people from across America, but it wasn’t hard to spot the 500 or so delegates among the vast and lurid halls of slot machines and gaming tables. Male, white, clad in khaki trousers and navy jackets, broader than they were tall, they looked both off duty and very much on the case. One of these tough-ass bruisers might perfectly complement the other two in the imagined crime busting ensemble: an older male professor type like CSI’s Gil Grissom, and a younger, gutsy female resembling CSI’s Sara Sidle. (CSI was definitely an influence.)
The cops were on a junket, enjoying free drinks with old buds amid all the bleeps and chimes and the distant sound of jackpots. But they were also diligent students. Entering the cavernous hall where the talks took place, past the merch table with its branded cop-sized coffee mugs, I was always taken with how well attended these graphic events were.
I’m trying to remember the exact content of those two or maybe three days of talks. There was one on the Green River Killer, vivid because it was the first time I had seen such gory photos of a crime scene. There was another which I’ll get to, but one talk on the first day was memorable for the man over the material. A New York detective with a very high confession rate, Rico was on my longlist, and the casting team had given him a heads up about my presence at his presentation.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t seen the heads up, or the bit about me filming him.
“You!” Rico broke off his powerpoint and seemed to be looking at me. A few heads turned. “Turn it off! Turn it off NOW!”
All faces were on me. Did the house lights come up? The speaker marched off the stage, barking orders boosted by his lapel mic.
“Rewind the tape. Rewind it!”
I knew that camera back to front, but my hands were like butter. Was this really happening? I looked up, shaking. I looked down, and saw the tape spooling back in time to a point where I wasn’t in trouble.
By a miracle, Rico showed mercy. Like a gigantic shark turning away from a dinghy, the man gave a cursory check of my outstretched video equipment and circled back to the stage. Audience attention returned to the speaker, and I crawled into the darkness.
Cops really don’t like being filmed, even if you’re trying to make them famous.