Confession

by Carey Baldwin

  “Not a perfect match,” he said, playing devil’s advocate. She was onto something all right, but they were going to need a lot more than the coincidence of a few first names to convince the police.

  She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “A man calling himself Perry asks Kenny Stoddard for guitar lessons.”

  “According to Jeremy.”

  She held up her hand. “Let’s assume Jeremy’s telling the truth. He’s got no reason at all to lie anymore. This Perry fellow has a tattoo of a blue tiger on his right biceps and the word Cookie tattooed on the left. The guy’s short, a muscle-­head with wavy black hair. Either the guy is Perry Smith, which is impossible, or the guy’s trying to be Perry Smith, which most certainly is not . . . impossible I mean.”

  “I have to admit the tattoos seal the deal for me. A blue tiger, a short guy named Perry who plays the guitar, could maybe be coincidence, but Cookie? Who the hell gets Cookie tattooed on his arm?”

  Faith hadn’t touched her croissant. He eyed it sideways, and she dumped it on his plate.

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada. We’ve only got a 50 percent hit on the victim’s first names. We need this airtight, or the cops are gonna think we’re spouting bullshit to get your brother off the hook.” She covered her hand with his. “But the thing is we’re not spouting bullshit. So all we have to do is put our heads together and solve the puzzle.”

  He liked the idea of putting their heads together. He liked the idea of putting their other parts together, too. But he decided to keep that tidbit to himself for now. “Google Nancy Aberdeen. The girl’s a real good stand-­in for Nancy Clutter, so let’s start with her. What else do we know about her?”

  Faith’s fingers jumped over the keyboard. A smiling image of poor Nancy Aberdeen popped up—­the same one that’d made national news—­the one of sixteen-­year-­old Nancy wearing a blue ribbon on her chest and displaying her prizewinning cherry pie. Your all-­American girl personified. “That cherry pie is like the cookie tattoo. It cinches the deal almost as well as a DNA match. According to Capote’s book, Nancy Clutter was the all-­American girl, and get this, on the day she died, she taught a friend how to bake a cherry pie.”

  “You’re kidding,” he said.

  “Don’t know for sure that she actually helped a friend bake a cherry pie that day, but that’s what Truman Capote wrote in his book. So as far as our Perry wannabe’s concerned, that’s the model he needs to follow—­assuming he’s getting his information about the Clutter murders from In Cold Blood, of course.”

  “I think that’s a safe bet. Okay, so we’ve got one perfect victim fit. Let’s move on.”

  “How about Kenny? The Clutter boy was named Kenyon, but I’m calling this a match. Unlikely the Saint could find another Kenyon. Kenny’s close enough, and both boys were fifteen, from a rural area. Good students, maybe a little shy.”

  He let out a deep breath. It all seemed so perfect until you factored in the others. “But aside from age and the rural connection, the adults don’t match. Herb Clutter versus William Carmichael? All the cops need to discount this complicated theory, and it is complicated, darlin’, is one logical flaw.”

  “Hang on, I want to try pulling up the men’s obituaries side by side.” Seconds ticked by, then Faith’s eyes widened. “Bingo!”

  He nearly choked on a bite of croissant. She passed him her water, and he gulped what was left in the glass. “You can say that again. Full name: Herbert William Clutter. Occupation: farmer. Deacon in the Methodist church. And here’s the Saint’s victim: William Herbert Carmichael, also a farmer. Also a Methodist. The two men even look alike.”

  An electrified look passed between them. He knew it. She knew it.

  Dante was not the Saint.

  Perry the Pervert was real, and he was deadly. Luke didn’t know yet how Linda Peabody matched up well enough to stand in for Bonnie Clutter, but Faith already had the women’s obituaries up in side-­by-­side windows. Both were mothers of four children—­three girls and a boy. Both married to farmers. Both Methodists. It was a good fit, but . . .

  “This bothers me.” Faith’s words echoed his thoughts. “All the other names match in one form or another, but not Bonnie’s and Linda’s. Why would the Saint veer off course?”

  “An evolving MO? A dearth of suitable victims named Bonnie? Bonnie’s an old-­fashioned name, and maybe the Saint decided it was more important to match the victims on other characteristics rather than the names.”

  “But he made it work with the others, even though he had to resort to Herb as a middle name. The Saint seems so organized, and yet this feels sloppy to me.”

  “Google Bonnie.” Luke jabbed his napkin.

  “I already did.”

  “No. Just the name Bonnie. Doesn’t Bonnie mean pretty?”

  “I don’t have to google that. A bonnie lass is a cute girl.”

  The words sizzled in the air, charging the space around them with excitement. In unison they said, “Una chica linda!”

  The Saint couldn’t find a forty-­four-­year-­old Bonnie with four kids, so he chose a forty-­four-­year-­old Linda with four kids. This was New Mexico after all. ­People were facile with Spanish. Linda and Bonnie both meant cute or pretty.

  “I don’t see how the authorities can fail to act on this. The Saint is targeting individuals who mirror the victims in Capote’s book. And he’s using a shotgun—­just like Perry Smith and Dick Hickock did. Jeremy Jacobs saw a man calling himself Perry with Kenny Stoddard shortly before he disappeared. This is compelling stuff.”

  “The Saint has already killed a stand-­in for every member of the Clutter family who was murdered in cold blood. Does that mean he’s finished?”

  Faith looked so hopeful, he hated to remind her. “The Saint’s not done. If he were, we wouldn’t have the butcher.”

  “The butcher? Is that a moniker for a famous serial killer or something?”

  “No. The latest victim, the one they found with a rosary last week, was just IDed today. Torpedo texted me. The guy owned a butcher shop downtown called Three Little Pigs.”

  Faith’s face went ashen. Her coffee cup spun onto the floor, and he grabbed the laptop, jumping out of the path of hot liquid.

  She stared at the coffee dripping from the table onto the floor. “I didn’t know the new victim was a butcher . . .” she whispered. “I-­I can’t believe this.” She dropped her face in her hands.

  A young girl—­a barista—­stood behind Luke, her mouth agape and a rag in her hand. Luke grabbed the rag and sopped up the coffee mess. The girl just stood there staring. He found a wad of bills in his pocket and closed the barista’s palm around it. “Thanks very much,” he looked at her name tag. “Linda.” Who knew how much she’d overheard.

  “We need a change of scenery.” He tugged Faith to her feet and shoved her out the door.

  The minute they were out of Starbucks, she sagged against the brick building. Leaning in, he put his arm against the wall protectively, and also to encourage passersby to keep their distance from the two lovebirds. “What’s going on? Why did you react like that when I told you the new victim was a butcher?”

  She shook her head. “I-­I don’t know. It just reminded me of something a patient told me. I’m not even sure myself what it means. Let me figure this out first. I don’t want to violate patient privacy.”

  He felt his face heating. He could barely contain the urge to shake her by the shoulders. He’d trust Faith with his life, yet she couldn’t trust him with whatever was on her mind, and it clearly had to do with the Saint and a connection to the butcher. Dante was facing extradition to Texas, a state that made full use of the death penalty, and suddenly her lips were sealed? For the first time in weeks, he felt the need to remind her. “You turned my brother in to the police.”

  “I can’t talk about a patient.”<
br />
  “Now you get your panties in a wad about doctor-­patient privilege? I want to know what’s going on.” He pressed his body against hers. The feel of her heart beating against him made him want to protect her, keep her safe from harm, and here he was pushing her. But he couldn’t let up, not with his brother’s life on the line. He brushed his lips over her ear and growled again. “Tell. Me.”

  A man stopped, then took a step toward them. Faith shooed him away with a hand signal. “We’re newlyweds,” she said in a shaky voice.

  Luke backed away from her.

  Once her would-­be rescuer had moved on, she said, “Dante is in jail for crimes he didn’t commit precisely because I ignored doctor-­patient confidentiality. I did it for the public good. I’m not saying I made the wrong decision, but I simply cannot go down the path my mind is taking me without more information. Your brother confessed. The man I’m thinking of now did not, and he’s very, very fragile.”

  His mouth gaped, and he sucked in a blast of dry air. “It sounds like you’re saying you think this patient of yours might be the Saint. If that’s the case, you owe it to me to tell me why. If you won’t give me his name, at least tell me what’s driving your hunch.”

  “I-­I suppose you’re entitled to that much.” As she spoke, her lips quivered. She brushed a long, silky lock of hair off her face. “For one thing, this person has a friend who’s a butcher.”

  His anger cooled, he dropped his hands to his side. There had to be more to it than that. “And that’s it? That’s all you have to go on?”

  “He also fits the physical description of Perry to a T.” Her lips had stopped quivering, and she seemed to be in thinking mode again.

  “Even the tattoos?”

  “I wish I could say, but he always wears long sleeves. I thought he might be hiding scars under them. But yeah, he might be covering up unusual tattoos.”

  Luke rolled his head back, closed his eyes, then jerked them open and squared his gaze with hers. “That’s not exactly an open-­and-­shut case you’re making.”

  “I agree, it’s hardly proof. Anyway, I have his address in my laptop contacts. As soon as we get back to Santa Fe, I’ll pay him a visit.” She must’ve read the look on his face because she added, “I’ve been meeting with him alone for weeks. He doesn’t scare me. And like I said, I may be completely wrong.”

  “No way in hell I’m letting you go to this man’s home alone.”

  “You can’t go with me. That wouldn’t be ethical.” She planted her hands on her hips.

  “The second you told me there was a chance this guy might be the Saint, we passed the point where I gave a damn about ethics. So either I’m coming with you to talk to him, or I’m hauling your ass straight to the Santa Fe PD. Choose your poison, Clancy.”

  As she drew her shoulders back and set her jaw, he prepared himself to make a stronger case.

  “You’re right,” she said.

  His chin jerked back in surprise. “I am? Since when?”

  A flinty look of determination darkened her eyes. “Since just now. Since I figured out I’m tired of following rules that don’t work. I don’t want you to take me to the police, and I don’t want to talk to my patient alone again. In fact, until we know more, I don’t want to talk to him at all.”

  He loved the sound of that we. A million questions were racing in his mind, but he held off, not wanting to interrupt and risk her changing her mind.

  “I’m sick of playing by the rules only to have innocent ­people end up hurt. Suppose, heaven forbid, he really is the Saint. Confronting him would be dangerous, and going to the police would be foolish. Look how Detective Johnson reacted to those text messages. He practically accused us of engineering the whole thing. Even if he takes us seriously, he’ll need more information to get a search warrant. We, on the other hand, don’t need a warrant. I trust you, Luke. And I don’t trust Johnson.”

  “What are you suggesting?” His admiration for this woman was growing by the minute.

  “My patient is a creature of habit. He dines every evening from 7:00 P.M. to 8:00 P.M. at The Blue Moon Café. He’s told me so many times. So I’m suggesting we pay him a visit at 7:00 P.M. And if his door just happens to be unlocked . . .”

  He held up his hand. “I’m sure I can jimmy the door, and I have no problem going to his place while he’s not home to take a look around. But what if we find evidence? Maybe it’ll get thrown out in court because we broke into the house. Then we’ll have done more harm than good.”

  She shook her head. “That’s the beauty of it. If we find nothing, no one knows but us, and that means no one gets hurt. But if we do find something, it’s all admissible—­just as long as the police know nothing about our plans.”

  TWENTY-­SIX

  Thursday, August 15, 6:00 P.M.

  Five hours.

  In five short hours, I will fulfill my destiny.

  A quiver of excitement traveled through Scourge as he opened Dr. Clancy’s back door with his bump key, but not because the key worked—­he’d established that the last time he was here. He turned his arms palms up, opened and closed his fists, pumping hard until his beautiful purple veins congested with blood and popped to the surface. The blood coursing through those veins electrified his skin—­just as it had earlier today when he’d finally cleaned up the mess in his bathtub.

  I’m cured.

  I am not a shadow.

  It’s time.

  Tonight, his timeline was of the utmost importance. Eleven o’clock would mark the ten-­year anniversary of Sister Bernadette’s death. So he needed to hurry. First, he’d abduct Faith and take her with him to The Big Kill, the grand finale, the pièce de résistance. Then, at precisely 11:00 P.M., he’d send the Donovans to heaven one by one and buy himself a first-­class ticket, nonstop, to Satan’s playground—­with Faith as witness to his sin. Finally, he’d come back around and take care of the boy and the dog before Faith’s body was discovered, and the cops questioned the neighbors again.

  After, he’d retire to the beaches of Mexico, just like Perry had wanted to do. And Scourge would be at peace—­confident in the knowledge he’d secured himself the kind of afterlife he so richly deserved. Sister Bernadette would probably ridicule him for his worry over this point. According to her, he’d secured his place in hell as a boy at school, just by wetting the goddamn bed. But Sister Cecily had said no, no matter how black the heart, light always remains. According to Sister Cecily, it was impossible to extinguish every bit of light in a man, and thus the possibility of forgiveness would always be there.

  That assertion had troubled Scourge for a long while, until he’d found the book. Once he read about Perry Smith and the Clutter murders, Scourge had devised a plan for getting into hell that he considered foolproof. He liked to think of his soul as the night sky, and taking an individual life was like cutting a single star from that sky. The light diminished . . . though not enough. But if Scourge took an entire family at once, it would be like cutting out the moon. His soul would become so dark, it could never be redeemed.

  And Dr. Clancy was such a lovely bonus. His other targets had never excited him the way she did. If his justification for taking her had been weak before, now it was completely sound. In therapy, he’d had to confide too much in order to obtain his cure. She was clever enough that sooner or later, she’d realize the dream he’d shared about Sister Bernadette was not a dream at all but a memory.

  No witnesses.

  That had been Perry and Dick’s cardinal rule. Now that Dr. Clancy had become a potential witness, taking her life would be by the book, and that would make his pleasure that much greater.

  He closed the door behind him. Dr. Clancy’s home smelled good.

  He liked the way she kept fresh flowers from the yard set out on every surface that would accommodate a vase. He liked the way she smelled, too. When he
sat across from her in her office, he could always detect the faintest trace of flowers perfuming her body. The scent she carried with her was more intoxicating than the finest draft of whiskey. Her scent reminded him of a funeral.

  Ironic.

  Laughing aloud, he wished Faith would come home, so he could share the joke with her. He checked his watch—­6:15. It wouldn’t be long now. He’d left his shotgun in the truck. He cared too much for Dr. Clancy to make a mess of her lovely home; besides, he wanted her to see him in all his glory. He’d take her with him to the farm, lay her next to the Donovan girl, and explain all to her. He’d keep her alive until the very end, show her how he’d sent the others off to heaven. He’d be sure she knew how and why he was going to send her there, too. He’d give her plenty of time to cleanse her soul before joining her parents and her sister. He’d give her his favorite rosary.

  He sighed. He doubted she’d thank him, though. No one ever did.

  In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and found some Tejava pure Java tea. He poured himself a tall glass, sat at the table, and drank it. Then he rinsed his glass and put it in the dishwasher. He dried his hands on a dishtowel, but water had seeped inside his gloves, and his fingers began to itch. He checked his watch again—­6:30. Time to hide in the bedroom. No fireplace poker or knives there to stab him. He slipped behind the bedroom door and waited.

  Time ticked by, and his fingers stung inside his wet plastic gloves. He shifted positions, stretching his stiff legs. He decided to take a quick stroll through the house to ease his soreness, then come back and crouch behind the bedroom door again. He’d only just wandered into the living room when he heard the sound of a key in the front door. No time to get back to the bedroom. He hid behind the sectional, removed his chloroformed rag from a Ziploc baggie in his pocket, and made himself ready. Blood zinged through his body. The door flew open, and a slight figure jolted inside, dragged by a tight leash.

  That damn kid.

  That damn dog.

  In his surprise, he hesitated, and in that moment the boy spotted him, crouched and ready to pounce.