Confession Page 6
Also within walking distance—Scourge’s favorite diner, The Blue Moon Café. At The Blue Moon, everyone knew him by name. He was a big tipper, and Suzie had eventually learned just how he liked his place set: nice and neat, the silverware perfectly parallel. Suzie never took offense when he removed his antibacterial wipes and used them to clean the forks and knives. Sometimes she took one of the wipes and helped him. That was Suzie for you. Always ready with a friendly smile and clean silverware.
Of course, he had a truck, but that was only for Special Duty. He kept it parked inside a storage locker, registered to Bernadette Smith. He thought that was a nice homage to Sister. Anyway, he couldn’t afford to be seen driving around town in that truck.
That was the kind of mistake that led to death row.
He wasn’t a student of the craft for nothing. If Ted Bundy hadn’t driven around every day in the same Volkswagen Beetle he used for Special Duty, he might never have been caught and executed. If Israel Keyes, who’d been almost as meticulous in his long-term planning as Scourge, hadn’t parked his rental car in front of an ATM camera, he’d be alive today. So no, he wasn’t driving his truck on routine errands, and he wasn’t discarding his cozy apartment, which was within walking distance of all his regular haunts, just because of a malfunctioning ceiling fan.
Click.
Clack.
Click.
Then again, until today, that sound had never made his hands shake. A drop of perspiration dripped from his forehead down the tip of his nose. He sniffed and turned his face to the side, toward the pungent odor seeping up from the sheets. The ammonia-like smell gagged him, and he struggled to move air in and out of his lungs, breathing through his open mouth like a landed fish. As he writhed, the sheets stuck to his skin.
That’s when he knew. The tacky moisture against his buttocks, his thighs, wasn’t sweat at all.
It was urine.
He hadn’t wet the bed since Sister died.
A tear slid down his cheek, then he started to sob.
I’m sorry. It was an accident.
Lazy. You lazy dirty boy. God doesn’t want us to lie in our own urine. Maybe you defecated, too.
No! No. I didn’t defecate. And I’m not lazy. I was asleep. I can’t help what happens when I’m asleep.
He could feel the explosion of pain from Sister’s flashlight slamming down on his back, then across his bare bottom.
Lazy. Thwack. Dirty. Thwack. Boy. Thwack. Sinner. Thwack. Scourge! And then that echoing laugh. That’s what you are, a scourge among us, and from now on that’s what you’ll be called. Scourge. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Click.
Clack.
Click.
He was on his knees beside the bed, desperately ripping off the sheets, trying to hide the evidence of his sin—from his own eyes. But it was no use. The filthy urine stained his sheets like his shame stained his soul. Sister Bernadette was right to punish him. He longed to be punished.
He buried his face in the sheets and made himself inhale his sin, the way Sister would have him do if she were here. On trembling limbs, he rose and stumbled into the alcove that housed his stacked washer-dryer unit. He stuffed the sheets into the wash, poured bleach into the dispenser until it overflowed into the bin, then added laundry detergent and fabric softener. He slammed the lid and dialed in bulky load, extraheavy soil, extra rinse. The machine shimmied to life, and his chest loosened, his shoulders lowered. He headed for the bathroom. He could fix this. All he had to do was get clean.
He could make this right.
He stripped. Turned the shower dial all the way to the left, and stood just shy of the jet, replacing the sheen of urine with sweat. His lungs opened fully. He could breathe normally at last. He dialed the water temperature back just enough that he could force himself to stand in the stream of scalding water. He’d forgotten the scrubber. The new one with the wooden handle he’d bought for cleaning the floors. He retrieved it from beneath the sink and jumped back in the shower.
A moment later, he’d soaped up the bristles and begun scraping the brush between his thighs. He was a dirty, filthy boy. But he could make himself clean. He stayed in the shower a long time. Eventually, the hot water ran out, but he didn’t care. He stood in the spray and scrubbed until his skin was raw and bleeding. The cold water soothed his burning skin. Then he slapped his forehead with the back of his hand. The blood pooling in the drain had reminded him of work. He was going to be late.
“Have you ever had your blood drawn before?” Scourge asked.
According to Mrs. Wilhelmina Stovall’s face sheet, she was seventy-three years old. The caustic look she gave him served as her answer and indicated to him she was an impatient woman who didn’t understand he was only doing his job. First of all, it was entirely possible that somewhere there was indeed a seventy-three-year-old woman who had never had her blood drawn. Second of all, phlebotomy was important business, and he took his job seriously and always followed protocol.
Really, he took everything seriously.
Many people were afraid of needles and blood. According to the phlebotomist manual, he was supposed to ask every patient the same question. A good phlebotomist informed and reassured his patient. The question was standard. He never skipped it. Not even for seventy-three-year-olds.
Managing to maintain a professional manner despite the nervous knot that had been forming in his gut since he’d woken up today, he said, “Make a fist please.”
“Oww!” she hollered, as he tightened the blue rubber tourniquet above her elbow, a fine mist of her saliva spraying him in the face. “You’re not doing it right.”
“Sorry.” Again, best to be professional, but he cringed at the thought of the germs now saturating the air he breathed. When he thumped the veins in Wilhelmina’s antecubital area, she squirmed, making his job more difficult. Her veins ran beneath her skin like thick ropes, rolling away from his touch, and he knew she was the sort who would complain if he didn’t hit pay dirt on the first try. So he took his time, which should have made her grateful, but had the opposite effect instead. By now, she was practically snarling at him.
Perhaps a little small talk would help her relax, put her in a more friendly frame of mind. “Is Wilhelmina a family name?”
“Keep your flirtatious remarks to yourself, young man. I’m here to get my blood drawn, not start a relationship.”
His face flushed. She was making fun of him. “I was only trying to be polite.”
“I don’t mind a little conversation, in fact I enjoy it, but let’s stick to the news or weather. I don’t like personal questions.”
Leaning forward, he thrust his tongue out between his lips, carefully studying her veins, somehow keeping his composure in the face of her imperious attitude. Finally, he thought he’d found a less roly-poly target. He lifted the venipuncture needle, already encased in its hub, with the purple-top tube in go position. He looked up and smiled at her, signaling the impending poke.
“D’ya hear they arrested that monster—the Saint?” Her tone let him know she found the whole story titillating. This was the type of conversation she enjoyed.
He blinked hard, imagining her lips moving in reverse, and her words being sucked back inside her mouth. If no one said them aloud, maybe they weren’t true. Maybe the police hadn’t arrested anyone at all. Returning his focus to her veins, he said nothing.
“I’m telling you they caught the Saint,” she repeated just as he pushed the long flat needle into a vein.
His hands started to shake. “No. They didn’t.”
“Oh, but they did.”
His fingers fumbled. Sweat stung his eyes. His vision blurred, and he couldn’t pop the needle into the vacutainer.
“Turns out it’s that illegitimate Jericho brother—Dante, and he confessed. Do you believe it?”
“You miserable little fool! Look what you did!”
Big fat drops of watery purple blood oozed down her forearm and dripped onto his gloved hands. Dripped onto his trousers—soiling them over the fly. “I’m sorry. It was an accident,” he whispered hoarsely.
“You stupid, stupid boy.”
Lazy, dirty boy. You’re a scourge.
Expecting her fists to rain down on him, he protected his head.
Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes went so wide he could see white all the way around her irises.
“I can clean up my mess.” He grabbed some gauze and swiped at the blood on her arm, but she knocked his hand away.
“I’m going to have to report you.”
Dirty boy! Wait until I tell the other Sisters what you did.
“No, please don’t tell anyone . . . I’ll lose my job.” His voice sounded weak, plaintive. He was good with the needle. He knew exactly where and how hard to poke it in. It was all her fault for not holding still. He got his needle in the vein, but she wouldn’t be still, she wouldn’t shut up. She’d unmanned him with her nasty remarks. His eyes flicked to his pants, wet with blood and ruined. He crossed his hands over the wet spot. “I’ll clean up my mess. I promise, Sister.”
“Are you a retard?”
He looked up through his tears, expecting to see Sister Bernadette, bounding to her feet, shaking her fist at him. But it wasn’t her.
Bernadette was dead—he’d killed her years ago.
For the second time that morning, he fell to his knees, and the oddest thing happened. As he wiped the blood drops off the floor, they burned right through his glove. Right through his skin, sizzling like spilled acid. He saw blisters rising on his arms, the blood boiling inside his veins. If he didn’t get the blood off him, his whole body would catch fire. “No! No! No!” Tearing off the bloody gloves, he crawled across the floor, as far and as fast as he could go.
Wilhelmina screamed for help.
He covered his ears.
Curled into a tight ball.
Began to cry.
SEVEN
Tuesday, July 23, 9:00 A.M.
Faith winced at the clock in the police interrogation room. Nine in the morning. She’d been here since seven, and the detective who’d insisted she arrive promptly had just now swaggered into the room. Last night, despite her weariness, she’d tossed and turned for the better part of the night, unable to forget about either Dante’s confession or the black-haired man in her kitchen. New locks and the authorities’ assurance that the man would not likely return had been some comfort, but not enough to result in a restful night. And now, thanks to the tardy detective, she hadn’t gotten her morning run in, which meant she wouldn’t be sleeping tonight either. It was far too easy for her to regress to her old insomniac ways. Ways that harkened back to the time of her parents’ accident.
Closing her eyes, she pictured Grace, sitting at the foot of her bed offering a cup of warm milk, after Ma and Da died. Do you want me to sing you a lullaby? Grace had asked. But Faith had declared she only wanted Ma to sing to her and turned her sister away.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and set down her water bottle, glaring around the stark room. Detective Howard Johnson referred to this oversized closet as an interview room, but she knew it was the same place the police interrogated murderers and thieves. Wire cages that covered not only the windows but the ceiling tiles as well were strategically placed to prevent suspects from escaping through the vents. The whole ambience was designed to wrest control from the interviewee and give the interviewer a decided psychological advantage. Which was all well and good for prisoners and suspects, but she was neither. She was a trained professional, and she was cooperating fully. Narrowing her eyes at the big two-way mirror on the far wall, she barely managed to resist the urge to shoot the bird at whoever was behind it.
Sleep deprivation made her cranky.
“Nobody there. They’re all across the hall watching us on computer screens. These two-way mirrors are practically obsolete, but it’s not worth tearing them down.” Detective Johnson balanced his beefy body, made even bulkier by the Kevlar vest buttoned under his shirt, atop a flimsy laminate table, and swung his feet off her side. Rather than sitting across from her in the opposite chair, he loomed over her, invading her personal space. A controlling and completely unnecessary move.
When one giant, swinging shoe narrowly missed her kneecap, she flinched. “Is there some particular reason you’re treating me like a hostile witness, Detective?”
“You’ve got the wrong idea there, little lady.” He winked at her and followed that up with a loud belch, making her wonder if he’d just had a long leisurely steak-and-egg breakfast while she sat waiting obediently in an interrogation room that stank of body odor and sour milk.
Her teeth clenched, and she deliberately relaxed her jaw, smiled sweetly. “Do I really have it all wrong, Howie?”
His face flushed. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this very serious matter. You wanna Coke or something?” He snapped his fingers and addressed the camera. “Somebody bring Dr. Clancy a Coke. She thinks we don’t treat her right.”
“No, thanks.”
“Coffee? I can’t really recommend the brew here, but we’ll scare some up if you like.”
“No, thanks. You said you wanted to talk to me about Dante Jericho?”
“If you’re sure, then.” He trailed a hand through his close-cropped wheat blond hair. “Heard you had a possible break-in at your home last night.”
“Not a possible break-in. I saw a man in my kitchen.”
“But there was no sign of forced entry. Nothing missing.”
“Not that I can tell so far, no. But I saw a man in my kitchen window. It wasn’t my imagination.”
He gave her the once-over. “If he wasn’t after money, maybe he was after you. If I were a pretty lady living all alone, I’d keep my doors locked.”
“The doors were locked. But thanks for the tip.” The sarcasm in her tone matched the condescension in his. Bring it on. She’d rather be mad than scared any day, and the macho detective was providing a nice, fat, diversionary target.
“You look beat, Doc. You sleeping okay?”
“No,” she snapped. “Look, Detective, I came down here voluntarily, and I’m prepared to give you all the help I can. But I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“Doctors got a funny way of thinking their responsibility is to their patients. But a cop’s responsibility is to the public. See, my job is to look out for Jericho’s victims.”
“Allegedly, Jericho’s victims.”
“He confessed. But okay, allegedly. And you just proved my point with that remark . . . little lady.” Johnson leaned as close as he could get without touching her.
She could smell that coffee he couldn’t recommend on his breath.
“So maybe you can understand how I might want to be sure I’m getting the whole story from you. That you’re not holding anything back.”
Her hands twisted in her lap. Johnson’s argument wasn’t without merit. She had a duty to warn the public about a potentially dangerous criminal, both legally and ethically, and she’d fulfilled that duty. But Dante Jericho was technically still her patient. She had real moral and legal obligations toward him, too, and she felt the weight of those rather heavily at the moment. What the Saint had done to his victims froze her bones and cracked her heart into little pieces, but what if Dante Jericho wasn’t the Saint?
Dante’s grasp on reality ebbed and flowed with the phases of the moon. Surely, the police should co
nfirm the facts, gather some evidence, before accepting his confession and closing the case.
“We’ve subpoenaed your records on Dante Jericho,” Johnson said.
“And they’ve been provided to you.” Faith used an EHR, an electronic health-record-keeping system, and that meant no waiting for transcriptions or photocopies like the old days. The police had been given full access to everything in her files the same hour she received the subpoena.
“They weren’t much use.” Johnson shrugged and slid a consent for release of information, signed by Dante, into her line of vision. The release wasn’t necessary. Unlike the communication between a lawyer and a client, doctor-patient confidentiality didn’t extend to criminal matters. Plus there was the subpoena. The fact that Johnson obtained a consent that was entirely superfluous confirmed her belief he didn’t trust her. He was trying to preempt any possible protest on her part.
She tried again to set him straight on her intentions. “Detective, I’m not going to pretend I enjoy being interrogated.”
“Interviewed.”
“Whatever. But I won’t withhold information. I want the truth to come out as badly as you. So maybe we can just get down to it.”
“Got places to go?”
Her only patient was in jail. She hadn’t a single friend in town, and Johnson likely knew both of those facts.
“I’ve got an important conference later today, and I need time to prepare for it.” Not a complete lie. She hoped she had an important conference. On Saturday, she’d e-mailed Dr. Caitlin Cassidy, requesting a consultation.
Dr. Cassidy was the foremost expert in the country on false confessions, and she had recently been involved in the release of a man on death row—a man who’d been clearly exonerated by DNA evidence after new witnesses came forward. It was absolutely possible Dr. Cassidy would respond to her today.