Free The Runner by David Samuels Page B

People whose homes are invaded and whose possessions are stolen lose their accustomed sense of safety and protection. Their sense of connection to their neighbors and to the larger community is strained. They feel violated.

    “You take the old couple from Kansas City that he burglarized on one occasion—a
    thirty-thousand-dollar-plus property loss,” he said, sounding entirely sincere. “You sit down and talk to that couple, and they don’t feel safe in their home anymore. That antique rocking horse meant a lot to them.”

    When Hogue was captured by the federal marshals in Arizona, Walraven flew down to
    Tucson and interviewed the captive in jail. A tape of the interview shows a determined
    investigator who had studied the case with care. Still, his quarry continued to elude him.

    “Do you have any interest in telling me where the rest of the property is that I haven’t
    found?” Walraven asked.

    Hogue played dumb.

    “I don’t know what it is. Do you have a list?” he asked, accusing Walraven of making
    vague accusations.

    “No, I’m not,” Walraven defended himself. “In 2003, there’s an antique rocking horse,
    leather chair, and paintings, hand-woven rugs. I’m not being vague when I describe a big rocking horse by your front door. The leather chair that was in your living room. That’s not vague. They were in your house.” The list of items made the detective sound silly.

    “Where are they now?” Hogue asked.

    “They’re in evidence.”

    “Well,” Hogue answered, “then why are you asking me about them?”

    Walraven paused, and then regained his bearings. “You told me on January 4 you’re
    building a house. Remember that?” he asked.

    “I remember passing your lie detector test,” Hogue said, referring to a test to which he
    had voluntarily submitted to in Telluride before he left town. “I remember that much.”

    Walraven made his annoyance clear. The test showed that Hogue always told the truth, he
    said angrily, even on the control questions that he was supposed to lie about, like the color of the wall in front of him. “What does that mean?” he asked Hogue.

    “I don’t know. You’re the one who was saying you’re the expert,” Hogue answered.
    Sullen at the beginning of the interview, he was clearly enjoying himself. “Well I think that, uh, your office is a little overstaffed,” he added. He also expressed his dissatisfaction with a documentary film about his life that had appeared in 2002. Called Con Man, the film was produced by a filmmaker named Jesse Moss, who came to me for help after reading an article I wrote about Hogue in 1995 for the Washington Post.

    “You sounded like a pretty good track star,” Walraven offered.

    “Not really,” Hogue answered, modestly. “I was seventeen years old, running against
    people that were Kenyan Olympians. I mean, I didn’t expect to be able to beat them.”

    When it came to the question of the stolen goods he had dumped out by Trout Lake, near
    the old water tower, he was no more forthcoming.

    “You talking about the water tower on the road? Near the entrance to Trout Lake?”
    Hogue asked. “I don’t know anything about that water tower. I think you got your locations
    mixed up.”

    “I don’t think you could tell the truth if you had to,” Walraven said.

    “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” Hogue answered.

    “I think I do,” Walraven said.

    “Well, I know you don’t,” Hogue said.

    “How do you know I don’t?” Walraven asked.

    “Well first of all, I don’t know anything about the water tower,” Hogue answered,
    adding, “I know where the water tower is.”

    When Walraven accused him of being a liar, he showed his disdain for the word by
    shrugging his shoulders. “I would think that one lie would make a person a liar,” he answered.
    “Going by that makes you a liar, because you’ve lied to me at least once.” “

    What did I lie about?” Walraven