“And I appreciate you for it.”
“Before you go, can’t you say something to help me find Alexandra’s killer? Where should I look? Whom should I talk to?”
“Even if I gave you my opinion, you need to understand one thing about Alex. Her drive, her pushy nature to get the ‘story inside the story’ is what made her famous. That same drive created enemies when people confided in her and she betrayed their trust.”
I was right back to where I started with him, listening to the same gibberish he’d already told me.
“Should I be focusing on the past or the present?”
“I don’t know.”
I didn’t believe him. Even in death, it seemed he was protecting her.
I made one last attempt. “Who is the book about?”
“Talk to her agent, Miss Jax. But before you do, remember what I told you before. Some things in life should remain private. Some things the world doesn’t need to know.”
He placed his hand back on the handle of the suitcase, and I watched it roll away with him beside it. Our entire conversation wasted. As I slid out of the car, anger welled inside me.
Anger at Roland.
Anger at myself.
Anger for sharing something so intimate about myself and getting nothing in return.
CHAPTER 27
Elias Pratt
December 19, 1985
It had been three months since Elias last saw Alexandra Weston. She’d requested visitation several times, and each time, he’d refused. Agreeing to see her meant answering her questions, playing her game instead of forcing her to play his. In truth, he wanted to see her, wanted to look into her wicked, cat-like eyes, force her to see herself as he did. And he was lonely. Maybe even depressed. Visits from his family were scarce these days, and when they did happen, all his mother did was cry. His father didn’t visit anymore. Almost everyone he knew treated him like he was already gone, even though he was still here, surviving.
Funny how life took so little time to change.
After three months of rejections, a desperate Alexandra had taken the time to pen him a letter. He expected it to be littered with pleas, begging him to give her another shot at telling his story. It wasn’t. In fact, the letter wasn’t a letter at all. It was a note. Short, simple, to the point. Her motives were clear. He had thirty days to accept a second meeting or her next book would be about serial killer Ted Bundy, a man she said was “the most famous and notorious serial killer of our time.”
Ted Bundy.
Maybe he was more famous than Elias.
So what?
Famous wasn’t everything.
Besides, according to the rumor mill, an author named Ann something, a close Bundy friend and former coworker, had released a book on Bundy five years earlier. Alexandra didn’t strike him as a woman who would play second fiddle to another author who’d already published a similar book. The question now was this: Was he calling her bluff, or was she calling his?
For the next two weeks Elias read Alexandra’s note again and again, unfolding it and refolding it until the paper had withered to almost nothing. He’d read it so many times it was ingrained in his mind—the words, the penmanship, the floral-and-spice perfumed smell of the paper. Alexandra’s smell. He longed for her face, for the opportunity to get another whiff of her, and to break her before she broke him.
Alexandra walked toward Elias in the same way she had the first time they met, slow and sultry, grinning from ear to ear. The only difference was her attire, an unbuttoned jacket over a tight top and fitted, black trousers.
“Good to finally see you again, Mr. Pratt,” she said when she sat down.
“Miss Weston.”
“It’s Mrs. now, but you can call me Alexandra if you like. How did it feel to receive a stay of execution last week?”
“Same as any other day, I suppose. I spend twenty-three hours a day in my cell. Most days I think I’d prefer to be dead.”
“Do you? Prefer to be dead?”
“I’ll die either way, Alexandra. All my lawyer is doing is postponing the inevitable. If you ask me, it’s a waste of time.”
She pulled out a white notebook, opened it, placed it on the table in front of her. For the next several minutes, he reminisced about his childhood. Occasionally she’d look up from jotting things down, smile, stare at him with those haunting eyes of hers that made him feel like she didn’t just see him, but saw the darkness lining his soul too, thick and black like a corn maze at night.
After answering several mundane questions, she said, “Let’s recap what I have so far. You were raised in a home with both of your parents and two brothers, no sisters. Your parents are well known in this city, both of them hard-working, loving people. You didn’t endure abuse of any kind during your upbringing, not physical, verbal, or otherwise?”
“That’s right.”
“No childhood trauma either?”
“Nope.”
“Interesting.”
He shrugged. “I guess. Boring might be a better word. Or safe.”
“Tell me about the first robbery. What made you do it?”
“I don’t really know. I was bored, I guess.”
“You guess? You robbed almost two dozen houses in a single year. What started it? Where did you get the idea?”
“The first house I robbed was done on a dare. My buddy James Hardy bet me a dollar I couldn’t get in and out of his neighbor’s house in less than ten minutes with a sack full of stolen items. I had to steal at least five things without getting caught to win the bet.”
“Were you successful?”
“I was out in six,” he said. “We had a laugh, and I figured even though it was a rush, it was all over.”
“Why didn’t you stop?”
“It was like an itch ... you know, an addiction I needed to scratch. I started dreaming about it at night, plotting during the day, wanting to push myself to go bigger, better than before. I passed by houses on my way home and fantasized about what it would be like to rob the places.”
“Are you saying you only did it for the rush? You didn’t care about the stuff you took?”
“I’m saying once I started, I couldn’t stop. I mean, maybe I could have. Who knows? I didn’t want to. If I robbed a sixty-thousand-dollar house one week, I robbed an eighty-thousand-dollar house the next.”
“Most of the items you stole were never recovered. Where did you stash the things you took?”
He leaned back in the chair. “Can’t tell you that.”
“Why not? The items are of no use to you now.”
He grinned. “Next question.”
“You shot and killed your first victim, Henry Collins, during your fourteenth robbery. Why kill him and not the others you robbed before him?”
“He woke up.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t have shot him if he remained asleep?”
“Wouldn’t have had a reason to, so probably not.”
“You were wearing a mask though. He couldn’t identify you. Why not just run, spare his life? He was in his late seventies. Too old to come after you, wasn’t he?”
“For an old guy, Henry was a lot stronger than I thought he’d be. He attacked me, pulled the mask clean off my face. I went for my gun, a gun that belonged to my father. I’d taken it with me a few times before, but I never planned on using it. I didn’t think I’d have to. I mean, I never thought I’d be able to ...”
“Pull the trigger.”
He nodded.
“But you did.”
Elias hung his head. “I’m not proud of it. It was an ... I mean to say, I didn’t mean to do it. It just happened.”
“What do you mean ‘it just happened’?”
“I was holding the gun. He tried to grab it from me. I was trying to keep it away from him, and I must have squeezed the trigger. It went off. Shot him in the chest. Wasn’t anything I could do about it at that point. He slid off me, pressing his hand to his chest like he could stop the blood
from gushing out of it. But it was just everywhere.”
It was a lie, of course. Henry had never tried to take the gun from him. He’d just stood there, several feet from Elias, eyes wide, shocked he was being robbed. The old man hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t yelled, hadn’t even tried to defend himself. The way Elias saw it, the old man was weak and tired, too tired to defend his own home. He didn’t seem to care whether he lived or died, so Elias decided to help him out of his predicament. He aimed his gun and shot him.
The moment was euphoric and life changing, everything he’d hoped it would be. After robbing thirteen other homes, stealing wasn’t fun like it was before. A part of him wanted more. A part of him begged for it. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care. It was like he’d been freed from his box, and he wouldn’t let anyone put him back in again.
The sound of Alexandra’s voice released him from the memory. “Mr. Pratt, if the murder of Henry Collins was actually an accident, why didn’t you admit it during your trial?”
“I knew I’d be convicted for all I’ve done either way,” he said. “I didn’t see the point.”
Alexandra stared at Elias like she was trying to decide whether to believe him. He smirked. He’d done it—the wheels in her mind were turning, convincing her the man she thought he was wasn’t who he was at all.
“I’ve never heard anyone say what you just said.”
“Say what?”
“Take ownership like you just did. Most killers don’t care about what they’ve done. They’re proud of it. Even when they know they’re going to die. I mean, some of them have a come-to-Jesus moment in the eleventh hour, but they’re usually the desperate ones, those willing to do anything to be saved from execution. It’s ironic, you know? For all the lives they took without hesitation, they’re terrified of losing their own.”
It was working. She’d separated him from the pack. Or so he thought.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“You killed a lot of people.”
“I killed when I had to kill. Not out of a lust for it, and not because of a need I had to fill. I was faced with no other choice. I’m not like those other heartless animals. At least, I’d like to think I’m not.”
“Why talk about it now? Why come clean with me?”
“Being in here, locked up, alone with my thoughts day after day, I’ve had a lot of time to think about those I’ve hurt. Family members of the people I killed who deserve answers to their questions, deserve to understand it wasn’t personal. I’m hoping your book gives them the solace they need to move on. Closure, I guess. If it’s possible.”
Boo-hoo. That’s right. Eat it up.
And she was too. He could tell by the look on her face.
“What about your other victims? After you killed Henry, you killed several more times. They can’t all be blamed on people catching you in the act.”
“Why not? You weren’t there. You don’t know.”
“I suppose I still don’t understand. Including Donald and Dorothy Hamilton, you shot and killed six people. You’re saying all six posed a threat?”
“I’m saying they all had to die. I wouldn’t have killed anyone if I didn’t have to kill them. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Why does it matter what I believe?”
He leaned forward for dramatic effect, stared right into her eyes until she stared back. “Because I care about what you think. I mean it. The only reason I killed those people was to survive. I knew I’d do prison time if I got caught. I know what you’re thinking—I’m weak, a coward. I should have turned myself in. You’re right. I should have.”
He leaned back, watching her struggle to come up with the words that, up to now, had flowed from her tongue with ease.
“What ... what, ahh ... what about Donald and Dorothy Hamilton? The police found you on the ground, holding their daughter in your arms when they entered the house. Your mask was still on.”
“All I can say is it was a different situation than the rest.”
“Different how?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Why not? You’ve been open with me so far today.” She paused. “Elias, how are Donald’s and Dorothy’s deaths different from the others?”
He shrugged. “They just are.”
She leaned back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other. “I came here initially thinking you would be just like all the other criminals I’ve written about. But you’re not like them. You’re different, Elias. You don’t say what you think I want to hear; you mean what you’re saying. I can tell by the expression on your face. I see something in you I’ve never seen in the others.”
“What’s that?”
“Remorse.”
He bit his lip, stifled the overwhelming urge to laugh.
“Yeah? You think so.”
“You regret the murders you committed, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Every single day.”
Bingo. He had her right where he wanted her.
“Help me understand this then. How does a man with genuine remorse rape a woman?”
When he didn’t respond, she added, “I heard the sworn testimony given by Paula Page. I saw her tears, the way she couldn’t look at you when she was talking. Want to know what else I noticed?”
Silence lingered between them for a time. When he didn’t respond, she continued. “During Paula’s testimony, she kept looking at Sandra Hamilton. I asked around. Paula and Sandra aren’t friends. They’ve never been friends. Never hung out together. Why does a girl who has no affiliation to the other girl continually stare at her while she’s on the stand?”
He shrugged. “How should I know?”
“After you killed Donald and Dorothy Hamilton, you shot Sandra. Instead of leaving, you stayed. Why? You must have known the police were coming. Why risk getting caught? What made her different from everyone else?”
“It didn’t feel right, shooting her. I ... we ... knew each other.”
“From school, I know. She said you don’t really know each other well though.”
“Not personally. I was a few years older.”
“You shot her parents with precision, and yet you shot Sandra in an area you knew wouldn’t kill her. There were also bullets still left in the chamber of your gun. Why not finish her off when you had the chance and make a run for it?”
He closed his eyes, shook his head slowly. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
“You said you wanted to give people closure. Part of that closure comes from telling the truth.”
He closed his eyes. “I can’t do this anymore today. It’s too much. I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Who are you protecting, Elias, and why?”
“No one. Nothing.”
“It’s hard admitting the truth, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about Sandra Hamilton. You rushed to her side after you shot her, cradled her in your arms, pressed your hand against her wound to stop the bleeding. Then you waited for the police to arrive, even though you knew what would happen when you got caught. Deny it all you want. I know why you did it, Elias.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“You didn’t just feel guilty because you shot her. You regretted shooting her because you cared for her.”
“Who told you that?”
Alexandra leaned forward, curving her lips into a wicked grin. “It’s a shame she didn’t care about you in return. But then, how could she when you’d killed her parents?”
CHAPTER 28
Alexandra Weston
December 20, 1985
Alexandra had gone into her visit with Elias Pratt expecting the interview to be no different from all the other interviews she’d had with criminals in the past. When it wasn’t, it confused and titillated her at the same time.
Unchartered territory.
A killer who made her feel somethin
g she never had before.
A killer who seemed to actually give a damn.
A killer whose secrets she was determined to discover. If not from Elias’s own mouth, she’d find another way. And she knew just where to begin. After being shot the night her parents died, Sandra Hamilton had recovered quickly. As an outpouring of love and attention flooded in from people who’d heard her story, she slid with ease into her newfound role of the grieving victim, weeping during interviews and even feigning a panic attack or two on air. She played the part well. So well, in fact, it was Sandra’s label of Elias as a “Devil in Disguise” that took hold, sticking to him like gum beneath his feet.
One day after visiting Elias, Alexandra stood in front of the door to Sandra Hamilton’s modest house. She knocked. No answer. She waited almost a full minute. Knocked again. This time, the door opened. Sandra poked her head out. Her hair was a matted disaster, her attire a short cotton nightie. This, coupled with the dark circles under her eyes, and it appeared she’d been sleeping all day.
“Who are you?” Sandra asked. “And what do you want?”
“My name is Alexandra Weston. I’m working on a book about Elias Pratt.”
“So?”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
“I tried calling several times yesterday. I even left messages on your answering machine. You never called me back.”
Sandra moved a hand to her hip. “What do you think that means?”
“You don’t want to talk to me.”
“Good. You’re smarter than you look.”
Sandra turned and walked away, leaving the door ajar. Alexandra took it as a sign she’d been offered a full-access pass and stepped inside. Sandra stopped at the kitchen, reached for a pack of cigarettes on the counter. She cupped a hand around her lips, lit up, took a long drag, and blew smoke into the air, allowing the smell of tobacco to waft through the room.
From the back of a long hallway, a man emerged from a bedroom. He was dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and looked like he exceeded Sandra’s age by at least fifteen years. He scratched at his family jewels, gave Alexandra a quick head nod, smiled, and continued to scratch away until he, too, reached the kitchen.
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