The Devil Died at Midnight

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “You sure are pretty,” he said. “Bet you get told that all the time though.”

  Alexandra gnawed on the inside of her cheek, tapped a bright-pink manicured fingernail on the table. “If you’re not serious about talking to me today, Mr. Pratt, I can leave. There are other death-row inmates across the country willing to be the subject of my next book.”

  He leaned forward. “Chill, baby. I like the company. I mean, I’m glad you’re here, glad you picked me. I’m flattered.”

  “I didn’t pick you. My publisher did.”

  “I saw you at my trial last year. Didn’t know why you showed up day after day. Figured you were with the press or something.”

  “I like to do my research.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’m here to write a story. Your story.”

  “A book?”

  She nodded.

  “You want to write a book ... about me?”

  She nodded again.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” she asked.

  “Why me?”

  “You’ve become a household name. You know that, right?”

  He shrugged. “Guess so. I don’t know much about what everyone thinks anymore, now that I’m in here.”

  “People want to know more about you. About your life.”

  “They know about it already. Been in the paper for the last year and a half.”

  “It’s not just your present predicament people are interested in, or the fact you refused to take the stand and tell your side of things in court. It’s your past. What you were like as a child, as a teenager ... people are curious. They find you unique and interesting. They want to know the person you were before you ended up here.”

  “Why does it matter now? I’m going to die. Why does anyone care?”

  She crossed one leg over the other. “You’re unique. You’re attractive. Especially to all the women out there who see you as more than just a killer. They all want to know you. The real Elias Pratt.”

  “What does my childhood have to do with it?”

  “Most murderers have a troubled past. They came from broken homes or suffered a form of serious trauma in their lives. You’re different. You weren’t raised poor. You had a good family, loving parents who had made a name for themselves in this town. What I’m saying is you don’t fit the typical mold of a killer.”

  “So?”

  “So, how does a man like you, living a life of privilege, decide one day he wants to aspire to be a thief and a murderer? What made you act on those urges, or were they even urges at all?”

  He leaned back in the metal chair, grinned. “Those are good, solid questions.”

  “You’ve been locked up for well over a year now. Have you thought about it? Do you even know?”

  He diverted his attention away from her, rubbing his thumb over a callous on his hand. He’d thought a little about what he’d done since he was arrested. Not a lot though. He didn’t see the point. The pastor of his local church had visited a few times, always trying to elicit a feeling of regret from Elias, a feeling of remorse and repentance. The pastor went on and on about the importance of being cleansed of his sins by seeking out forgiveness from God. Elias didn’t believe in God. He didn’t really believe in anything.

  Alexandra seemed to sense his thoughts had taken him out of their present conversation.

  “I’m getting ahead of myself,” she said. “I shouldn’t have started by talking about people and their curiosities. I should have explained what I hope to achieve by telling your story.”

  “What you hope to achieve? It’s all about money, isn’t it? You can sit here all day and talk to me about how much you care about my story, about me as a person. Let’s be honest. Your publisher only sees profit, and you only see publicity.”

  “I never pretended otherwise.” She glanced at her watch. “I was hoping to achieve more today, but I’m almost out of time.”

  “I thought this was an interview. You just got here.”

  “This was only meant to be an introduction, Mr. Pratt. They don’t give me a lot of time on these visits. I’ll see what I can do to get a longer session next time.”

  Alexandra stood, her chair screeching along the floor as she pushed it beneath the table.

  She turned, but he wasn’t done with her yet. “I never agreed to a next time. I only agreed to a first time. Without my approval, you don’t have much of a story, do you?”

  “I’m not here to play games. I’ll need to meet with you as much as I’m allowed until I have enough information for my story. Could be weeks. Could be months. Are you in or out?”

  “Maybe I’m not interested in a book being written about me.”

  “Then why did you agree to our visit today?”

  After spending almost every moment of every day wasting away in a cell without the stimulating conversation he craved, he’d grown bored. No one on the inside appeared to have an IQ over seventy, and for some, nearing seventy was even a stretch. Still, the thought of a book written about his life from someone else’s perspective wasn’t appealing. She’d write what she wanted to write, spinning his story any way she chose. Why agree? He knew how she saw him: Weak. Helpless. Malleable.

  She was wrong.

  Looking at her now, it was easy to determine her type—pushy and aggressive, a woman used to getting what she wanted when she wanted it. And even though he didn’t know her yet, he didn’t need to—he hated her already. And not just her: her kind. All the self-righteous women like her who’d looked down on him his entire life, even though they were all the same class of people.

  No.

  Even after all the effort she’d gone through to look irresistible to him, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being the patsy for her next story.

  He opened his mouth, planning on telling her to get lost, but then stopped when another thought came to mind. In a game of wits, he was smarter. Of this he was certain.

  What if she was made to be the fool instead of him?

  “Mr. Pratt, did you hear me?” she asked. “If you weren’t okay with me writing your story, why see me today?”

  Voice somber and even, he said, “If I agree, what’s in it for me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Better food. A different cell. Privileges.”

  She tipped her head back, laughed. “I’m a writer, not a magician. You get to tell your truth. Your story. Are you saying you’re not interested?”

  He bowed his head, tried to muster up a tear or two. When they didn’t come, he sniffled. “My family has been through enough because of me. I don’t want them to suffer anymore. It isn’t right.”

  By the look on her face, he could see his response wasn’t what she’d expected. “Most people I write about want to be infamous, never forgotten. With this book, you won’t be. Not in five years. Not in fifty.”

  “I’m not most men. I don’t care about any of that.”

  “I didn’t say you were. Look, Mr. Pratt, there’s no set story here. If you’re not the devil everyone has made you out to be, prove it. Now’s your chance to tell your side of things.”

  “My side of things was told in court.”

  “Not by you. You pled not guilty, let your lawyers do the talking for you, refused to take the stand. You risk nothing by confessing whatever truths you need to confess now. You’ve been sentenced. Nothing will change your fate now.”

  “Nothing except my appeals.”

  She laughed again. “The appeals will only prolong your life for so long. In my opinion, there’s no hope for a reversal.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Ask me how many murderers on death row I’ve interviewed who survived. Go ahead, ask me.”

  She walked to the door, her heels echoing as they clacked along the surface of the floor.

  “Hang on,” he said. “How about a parting gift before you leave?”

  Again, she turned, this time producing a smile. “What did y
ou have in mind?”

  “You can ask me a single question. Anything you like. I’ll answer it.”

  It was like a rare diamond being dangled in front of a jewel thief, one he knew she couldn’t resist.

  She glanced at a silver watch dangling from her wrist. “We hardly have the time right now.”

  “Tick-tock, Miss Weston.”

  “Why did you do what you did?”

  “Are you asking about the theft, the murders, or both?”

  She met his gaze. “I’m asking about the rape.”

  The rape. He wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. Wasn’t prepared. He needed time. He kicked the chair back with his foot. Stood. Said nothing. The guard walked over, gripping Elias by the arm, warning him to calm down.

  “We’re done here,” he said to the guard.

  “You said ‘anything.’ Not talking about the rape won’t make it go away, Mr. Pratt,” Alexandra said.

  Without looking back, he said, “Get another patsy for your story. We’re done here.”

  She gasped, then swore at him, the heels of her shoes clanking the way to the door.

  He just laughed.

  The game had begun.

  CHAPTER 19

  Alexandra Weston

  One Hour Later

  For a first meeting, it had gone some of the way Alexandra expected—a little push, a lot of shove, just like she’d done with every other subject in the past. She’d planted a seed, massaged Elias’s ego with words to reel him in like “unique” and “interesting,” attempting to make him feel different from other felons she’d written about in the past. It was the way her first meetings always started out—simple, unassuming, set up to give her new subject the idea that he was the one in control, not her.

  A sprinkle of flattery, and the waiting was officially underway. She doubted he’d make it a week without asking to see her again, and when he did, she’d already selected another subtle yet provocative outfit for the occasion. The thought of him stumbling over his words to answer her questions was almost comical.

  She’d feign interest, soak it all in, take notes, and pretend to be the kind of caring, understanding woman he’d always wished for in his life. Sooner or later, he’d have no resolve, and she’d have her next bestseller.

  The theft.

  The rape.

  The murders.

  He may have refused to tell his side of the story in court, but with the right prompting, she’d get him there, and when she did, he wouldn’t have a secret left in the world.

  Not once she was done with him.

  CHAPTER 20

  Present Day

  The following morning my publicist called. By the lackluster tone in her voice, I could tell she hadn’t been successful in getting me what I wanted. “I tried to get Roland Sinclair’s cell phone number for you,” she said, “but I can’t.”

  “What do you mean can’t?” I asked. “Sure you can. Call his publicist.”

  “I did. He said Roland is very private. He doesn’t give his personal information out to anyone.”

  “I’m not anyone. Did you tell him who I am?”

  “I did.”

  “And they know I’m the one who’s asking?”

  “They know, Joss. I even left a message. They’re supposed to give it to him.”

  “Mr. Sinclair lives in a small town in Colorado. If I can’t get him on the phone, how am I supposed to talk to him about Alexandra Weston?”

  “I may have found another way. I messaged him through his website and received a reply from his PA. She wouldn’t give me her number, but she did tell me he isn’t in town at the moment. I asked her if he knew about Alexandra Weston’s death. She said he did.”

  “Did she say where he was going?”

  “She only said the trip was unexpected. Last minute.”

  His sudden flight out gave me a glimmer of hope.

  Alexandra’s funeral was taking place in the next few hours.

  CHAPTER 21

  Detective Murphy entered his office. A middle-aged, redheaded woman followed behind. She looked tired and hungry, and though Finch and I stood three feet away, she never looked over. Murphy sat at his desk, looked at me, and said, “Thanks for coming in.”

  “You wanted to see me?” I asked.

  He tipped his head toward the redhead. “Tell her what you told me.”

  I glanced at the redhead. “Who are you?”

  “Celia Burke.”

  “Ah, you’re the coroner. I’m Joss, and this is Finch.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen your show.” She had a sour look on her face when she said it. “Murphy told me you asked if Alexandra Weston was poisoned.”

  I nodded. She nodded too.

  “She was. I found traces of fluoroacetate in her system.”

  Finch raised a brow. “Fluoro what?”

  “It’s a rodenticide,” I said. “She must have ingested it when she drank the coffee. Did anyone test the mug?”

  Murphy shook his head. “I didn’t. It wasn’t found at the scene.”

  “Wouldn’t she have tasted it in the coffee?” Finch asked.

  Celia shook her head. “Fluoroacetate is water soluble. It has no taste, no smell. It’s not easy to come by anymore though. It was used on rodents in the ’40s. Now it’s mainly used against coyotes around here. They’ve been responsible for several pet deaths in the area lately.”

  “It makes sense,” I said. “Alexandra was jittery, especially toward the end of our conversation. Her hands were shaking.”

  “The poison also caused her to vomit,” Celia said, “which explains why we found what we did in the toilet. It’s a nasty poison. The amount she consumed could have affected her perception.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “It could have made her hallucinate.”

  “Aside from the jittery hands, she communicated she was okay when I talked to her. What else did you find?”

  “The usual ... prints, hair fibers,” Murphy said. “It’s a public bathroom though, so there’s a lot to go through.”

  “What about the knife recovered from the dumpster? Was the handle removed and tested?”

  The question seemed to irritate her.

  “The crime lab tested everything.” She sighed. “The odds of finding blood were slim considering it wasn’t the murder weapon.”

  “The killer must have been there when she died,” I said. “She definitely didn’t have a cut on her neck when I saw her.”

  Murphy nodded at Celia. “That will be all, Burke. Thanks for your time.”

  She walked out, leaving the door wide open.

  “Is she always this happy?” I joked. “Is she related to Blunt?”

  “She’s on the shy side,” Murphy replied. “She doesn’t like people.”

  “I appreciate you including me, but couldn’t you have given me this information over the phone?”

  Murphy raised a finger. “I’m not done. Close the door.”

  Finch reached out, pushed the door closed.

  “Porter Wells called me this morning,” Murphy said. “He said you stopped by his house today, asked a lot of questions.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t like it.”

  “Porter Wells called just to say he didn’t like me showing up at his house?”

  “He also asked for a restraining order. He doesn’t want you around him or Chelsea.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  He frowned. “There wasn’t anything I could do. Of course, he can’t get a restraining order over the phone. He needs to fill out a petition form.”

  “I know that and you know that, but he may not. Did you enlighten him?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have time to hold his hand. He can figure it out like everyone else. I need to know why you went to his home though.”

  “Did Barbara Berry come talk to you yesterday?”

  “For a few minutes. Why?”

  “I met with her. She said she thought n
o one here took her seriously. She claimed Porter was after Alexandra’s money and Doyle was a stalker.”

  “I’m well aware of her opinions. We did a complete search of Alexandra’s home, talked to Porter, talked to Doyle Eldridge. There’s no hard evidence on either one of them. Sure, Porter’s full of himself and Doyle’s a little odd, but you can’t arrest someone for that. ‘Odd’ doesn’t make Doyle a stalker or a killer, and ‘pride’ doesn’t make Porter so money hungry he’d murder her for more of it.”

  “Do you have any other leads? Any other suspects?”

  “Look, the real reason I asked you here, Miss Jax, was to remind you to let us do our job. I’m not trying to be rude, but maybe it’s time for you to leave town.”

  I nodded and walked out of his office, leaving Murphy behind his desk, still talking to me like I cared what he had to say.

  “Now hang on,” Murphy called after me. “There’s no need to get upset. I appreciate your interest and your help. And I loved meeting you in person.”

  I didn’t turn back.

  I didn’t reply.

  I just kept on walking.

  CHAPTER 22

  The female caller on the other end of the phone spoke in short, staggered sentences—fragments mumbled in strings of three or four words like the cell reception was cutting in and out. It took a minute before I recognized her voice. “Chelsea, I can’t understand you. Slow down. I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.”

  “There’s someone behind me!”

  “Who’s behind you?”

  “I don’t know. A man ... or maybe a woman. I can’t tell.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my car.”

  “Yes, but where?” I asked.

  She paused. “On the corner of ... umm ... Chestnut and Sixth.”

  Still in the parking lot in front of the police department, I snapped my fingers, got Finch’s attention, put the call on speaker. “How do you know you’re being followed?”

  “Every turn I make, the car turns too.”

  “Can you tell what kind of car it is?”

  “It’s ... ahh ... dark blue, like a bluish-black.”