"Come on," James mutters. "Hang in there, Kirby." I don't think he's even aware that he's saying it.
I hear Brady and his men yelling at the Murphys.
"Get down on the fucking ground!"
Grunts and sounds of a scuffle follow. I hear thuds. A minute later Brady is at the door, motioning us in. We run.
The living room is to the immediate right. The Murphys are both down on their stomachs on the floor. They are looking at each other and their lips are moving.
" 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,' "
Michael says.
" 'I will fear no evil,' " Frances replies.
"Shut the fuck up," Brady growls.
They ignore him and continue their recitation.
James moves to Kirby. The smell of feces and urine and sweat are strong in the room. Her head hangs down, her hair brushes her thighs. He kneels in front of her, puts a hand under her chin, and lifts it up. It's a tender act, unexpected.
"Are you okay?"
"S-stupid . . . stupid question," she croaks.
She's talking to him, but her eyes are on me. They are pleading with me.
"Everyone out of here except Callie and me," I order. Hesitation and quizzical looks follow. The Lord's Prayer murmurs in the silence, like flies buzzing against a screen.
"I mean it," I say. "Now, please."
Only James seems to understand. He stands up and heads for the door without another word. Brady's men pull the Murphys to their feet and begin to walk them outside. Michael stops in front of Kirby.
"You didn't confess. You're going to hell, you know."
"S-see you th-th-there," Kirby hisses. She tries to blow him a kiss but fails.
"Get them out of here," I say.
Alan is the last to leave.
"I'll watch the door," he says, and pulls it shut behind him.
"C-can Callie clear o-o-out too?"
"I need her help, Kirby," I tell her, my voice gentle. "She was there for me right after. You can trust her."
Callie remains silent as Kirby studies her with a weary eye.
"K, c-can you please get me out of this?"
"Of course, honey-love," Callie tells her softly, kneeling next to the chair.
Callie pulls a pocketknife from her purse. As she begins to cut the ropes, Kirby starts to shiver. I put one hand on her shoulder, move the hair back from her brow with the other. When the ropes are off, she rubs her wrists and sits there for a moment, shaking.
"C-can I t-tell you something?" she whispers to us.
"Anything," Callie says.
She smiles. "I'm ab-b-bout t-to run out of s-s-steam . . ."
We catch her as she topples forward from the chair in a dead faint. This is what I'd seen in her eyes, that thing I'd understood. Kirby was about to fall apart and she wanted as few witnesses to that secret as possible.
KIRBY CLINGS TO ME, HER arms around my neck, as Callie washes her in the bathtub. We clean her like a baby, and she lets us. It's a moment of trust not likely to roll by again. Her muscles twitch and spasm, and her grip tightens as Callie (gently, so gently) wipes her private areas for her.
"Want to hear my confession?" she whispers in my ear, so faint I'm sure that only I can hear her.
I say nothing. I feel Kirby's lips smile against my skin.
"I had a friend, when I was sixteen, who got murdered by her boyfriend. He beat her to death and ran. I found him one year later and it took him three days to die. I wasn't even eighteen, but I never felt a lick of guilt about it."
I say nothing. I stroke her hair. She puts her head on my shoulder and sighs.
Everyone, even Kirby, needs to tell someone their secrets, sometimes. Ego te absolvo, Kirby.
43
"WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE BODIES?"
I sit in the room with Michael Murphy, as I have with so many others like him, trying to pry out his final secrets. The last confession. He examines me, my scars, tries (I guess) to look into my soul.
"Are you Catholic?" he asks me.
"Not anymore."
"Do you believe in God?"
"Maybe. What did you do with the bodies?"
He hid from us for twenty years. Where did the victims go?
He sits at this table as he sat at the one in his video clips. The rosary has been replaced by cuffs around the wrists, but the posture is the same. Michael Murphy is exactly where he wants to be. In his mind, jail was just the next best pulpit to preach from, the death penalty he and his sister had received was an opportunity for martyrdom. They confessed without prompting or the need for a trial. In terms of the video clips, "viral" remained an apt term. They've made their way around the world and back again via the Internet. In most instances their use is voyeuristic, the opportunity to peer into the last moments of another human being, to put an ear to the confessional booth. But it can't be denied that they ignited a debate that will probably rage on for months or longer.
There are those who feel that their methods were inexcusable, but that the message still has merit. Murder, one person had said, is not a Christian virtue, but full truth before God is. In other words, we don't condone how they did it, gosh no, but as far as what they had to say . . . well . . .
There is a radical fringe who consider Michael and his sister to be heroic, revolutionary. I'd run across a website selling T-shirts with slogans like Full Truth or Hellfire and Only God Can Judge the Murphys. All of this would sicken me if not for the most basic truth: support is in the minority. Most Christians, the majority by far, decry every aspect of what the Murphys did. Many have written open letters of apology to the families of the victims on behalf of all Christians and Catholics, and I am reminded of that section from the catechism of the Catholic Church Father Yates had read to me about the guiding principle of love. It's nice to see that for most, those aren't just words. The Murphys remain a ball of contradictions for me. Understanding the monsters the way I do is like harmonizing with a dark melody. I can never duplicate it, not exactly, but I can hit the notes an octave or so above, and from that surmise their song. I've achieved some of that with Michael and his sister, but many aspects elude me. Fanaticism, when it is applied to serial murder, is almost always a smoke screen. Terrorist leaders who preach death in the name of God aren't really interested in God; they're just getting off on making people die. Hitler spoke of strengthening the Aryan race; in reality, he was just another serial killer.
I've seen little evidence that either Michael or Frances took sexual pleasure in the crimes they committed. The physician at the women's prison where Frances has been housed confirmed that she is still a virgin. They never asked for the death penalty to be taken off the table. True believers? Or is there some dark joy buried deep, hidden so well that even they'll never see it?
"Do you really want to know?" he asks.
"No, Michael. I just had some free time today to come and chat with you. Of course I want to know."
He folds his hands and smiles. "Then confess something to me. It does not have to be something huge, but it can't be something small either. Tell me and I give you my word, I'll reveal to you what happened to the others."
I consider this offer. It's never a good idea to trade in an interrogation. Once they have what they want, they don't need you anymore and they can shut down. Michael's drug of choice is truth.
"Swear to God," I say.
"I'm sorry?"
"Swear to God that you'll tell me if I confess to something."
He shrugs. "Very well. I swear to God."
I sit back in my chair and think about it. He's not going to be happy with something like masturbation. It has to be personal, it has to be difficult, it has to ring true, but my personal integrity needs to remain intact at the end of it.
"My mother died when I was twelve," I say.
"What of ?"
"Pancreatic cancer."
"I'm sorry. That's a painful way to die."
"Yes, it is. Toward the en
d, all she did was moan or scream, day and night. The painkillers didn't help."
"That must have been difficult for you."
Difficult? It comes to me now like it was then, a glistening piece of horror. My mother's hair had always been long and full. The radiation had made her as bald as a baby. I'd always thought her eyes were one of the most beautiful things about her. Because of the pain, they rolled in her head, or she squinched them shut tight, or she cried. Her curves had been reduced to a skeletal waste, and her scent, that mother-smell that had once been as comforting and natural to me as breathing, was now alien and reeked of sickness and the Horseman. My dad, bless him, was a good dad, a great dad. He was a wonderful husband to my mom. But he couldn't take it for too long in that room, next to that bed. He'd visit for an hour and spend the next two days recovering. So it was left to me. I sat by her side and stroked her forehead and sang to her and cried with her. She was at home, and we had a hospice nurse, but I got the nurse to let me help with most things. At twelve, I changed my mother's diapers and I both hated and cherished the moment.
"In the last weeks, she begged me every day--sometimes twice a day--to kill her."
Kill me kill me please, honey, kill me, she'd moan or screech, over and over and over. Please, please, please, kill me and make it stop, make it stop, Oh dear God, make it stop . . .
"Mom was Catholic. Her faith had always been strong. She raised me to believe. In spite of it all, there she was, begging to become a suicide."
"God tests us," Michael says.
I glance at him and I consider killing him. Just for a millisecond.
"I believed that suicide meant she would go to hell. One day, toward the end, she had a good morning. It happened sometimes. She'd come back to us. Her eyes would get lucid and we could actually talk for a bit. It never lasted long. That morning I could have called my dad in, but I didn't. I decided to talk to her alone."
"About her death wish." It's a statement, not a question.
"Yes. I told her that suicide was a sin, that if she asked for death and got it, she'd go to hell. I told her that she needed to tell me she wanted to live until the end. I needed to hear those words from her."
He cocks his head at me, and narrows his eyes.
Does he see where I'm going? Maybe. Maybe this is his talent, maybe he smells sins like a dog smells meat.
"She was lucid. She still hurt, but I was able to get through to her, and she showed me at that moment what real faith could be. She smiled and told me what you told me. 'God is just testing me, love,'
she said. 'It will be over soon.' 'Say the words, Mom,' I asked her. She was a little puzzled, but she was tired, so tired. 'I want to live to the end,'
she told me. An hour later, she was gone again, back inside the pain, begging for death."
"Your mother sounds like an extraordinary woman."
"Yes, yes, she was."
He leans forward a little.
"The sin, Smoky? What did you do?"
I hate that he's using my first name.
"I just needed to hear the words, you know? So that when I killed her, it wouldn't be a suicide."
There it is, I think. The truth of you.
Because his eyes had widened as I said those words, ever so slightly. Not the widening of shock or surprise, but thrill.
"You murdered your mother?" he breathes.
"I brought her peace," I growl. "The peace that your God wasn't giving her. She was being tortured daily. We don't let animals suffer like that. Why people?"
"Because, Smoky--people have souls."
I feel like spitting in his face.
"Whatever. The bottom line was I poisoned her with an overdose of morphine pills. I knew how; I helped with her medication. And it wasn't a suicide, so, against your beliefs, she didn't go to hell for it."
He taps a finger against the Formica top of the table, considering.
"I have to agree with you on that, Smoky. Your mother went to heaven. Her last, lucid wish was not for suicide. You, on the other hand . . ." He shakes his head. "Unless you ask for God's forgiveness, you will never feel His grace."
"Maybe," I say, "but that wasn't our deal. I agreed to confess something to you. I think I've upheld my end of the deal."
He sighs. "Yes, and I did swear to God. But I hope you'll consider this in the future. I hope you'll wake up one day and ask for God to forgive you for murdering your mother. Don't you understand? It's the only way you'll ever see her again. "
"The other victims?" My voice is ice.
"Very well. Dermestid beetles. They're flesh eaters, used in taxidermy to clean the skin from bones. They're very efficient and easy to purchase. We used them to strip the bodies of their flesh, and then we ground the bones into powder and tossed the powder onto consecrated ground."
"You had them . . . eaten?" My voice is incredulous.
"The body is just a vessel, Smoky. Their souls are in heaven." He is calm, assured, certain.
"I'm sure their families will appreciate that."
"It doesn't matter if they do or they do not. The truth remains the truth."
I fight the desire to strangle him with my bare hands. Just a few more questions.
"How did you find out about Dexter Reid?"
"Dexter's . . . situation became a controversial topic on a number of Catholic blogs. We monitored worldwide Catholic-oriented news via the Internet daily."
I picture Michael and Frances as ghouls, crouched together in the dark, faces lit by a computer screen as they licked their dead lips and sifted through cyberspace.
"Let's discuss your method of operation. Was it always the same?
Frances infiltrated the congregation and bugged the confessionals?"
He nods. "We'd listen to the tapes together and make our choice. Frances would befriend them, learn their patterns."
"And you'd do the killing."
"She helped at times, but generally, yes. That was our division of labor."
"Then she'd stay with the congregation for a while after, so no one would suspect her of taking part in the disappearance."
"Correct."
"You started your . . . work before the Internet existed. What did you plan to do originally? With the tapes you made?"
"We weren't certain. We knew we needed to record our work, but I'll admit it wasn't clear to us at first just how those records would be used. Would we send them to a news organization? Direct to the people?" He glances up and smiles. "We trusted God would show us the way, and in His time, He did."
"Why did you change tack with Lisa Reid? You infiltrated her congregation personally."
He shrugs. "Eagerness, I suppose. We spent twenty years building our case. We knew our work was nearly done, and didn't want to wait a second longer than was necessary. As we were going to come out into the open, there was no further need to be so careful. Besides, it gave me the opportunity to leave my own thumbprint on the chalice."
"Weren't you concerned that Lisa would recognize you on the plane?"
"I wore a beard, and changed the color of my eyes. She'd always seen me in a wheelchair before. When someone is handicapped, quite often all people remember is the affliction."
True enough, I think.
"How did you know that your work was done?"
This is a key question for me, the behavior that makes Michael and Frances unique. Serial killers like to kill. They kill until they are stopped by capture or death. The Murphys had effectively stopped themselves by revealing their hand.
"We'd always known, had always agreed, that we would understand the moment when we had done enough. A few months ago, it was given to us that that moment had come."
"How?"
Michael Murphy looks right into my eyes and smiles, and it is the sweetest smile I've ever seen, the most beatific expression on a human face I've ever witnessed.
"God told me."
His voice radiates with awe. This is no joke or test.
"He spoke to you?"
/>
"Even better--He appeared to me. It was approximately three months ago. I'd been sleeping fitfully for some reason that night, which was unusual. I always sleep deeply, and well. I had dozed off for a moment. I was at the precipice, that place where you tumble into true unconsciousness, when His voice came to me."
"What did He say?" I prod, though I don't really need to. He's there, in that moment, hearing the voice of God.
" 'Michael,' He said, 'you've done well, my son. You've walked a difficult path at great personal risk to yourself, but the time has come for the next part of your journey.' "
I notice that only Michael gets the credit in this narrative; no mention of Frances.
" 'The time has come for you to reveal the truth to the world. It will not be easy. Many will revile you and reject the Word, but do not let that deter you. My way is the Way, and you must continue forward even though you walk through a field of broken glass.' " Tears are running down Michael's face now. " 'Yes, Lord,' I cried out to Him.
'Whatever You ask, I will obey. Whatever burdens You give me, I will carry.' " He pauses for a long time. I wait him out. "Then He was gone, and I felt energized and refreshed, even though I hadn't slept. I felt as though I could run for days, weeks, months, years." He comes back to the present, wipes the tears from his face without seeming to notice he's doing it. He focuses on me again. "God put us on that path. God told me we had come to the end of it. That's the way it's always been, for all the prophets since time began."
He believes it. Every word. I can see it on his face, hear it in his voice. The insanity is back in his eyes again, that bright and shining light. Why had they stopped? For the same reason they had started; the Murphys were insane.
"What about Valerie Cavanaugh, Michael? She was a break in your pattern. Each victim had an outward secret that masked something darker. What was Valerie's outward secret?"
He pauses, thinking. "You're right," he admits. "She didn't have one. But when we saw her confession . . . she did it to torment her priest, not because she was truly seeking God's forgiveness. You could hear the pride in her voice. Once, she even giggled. That poor man. He struggled with what to do, I'm sure, but the seal of confession is absolute." He shrugs. "Not the same as the rest, but her death still serves the greater message: the necessity for full truth before God. Confession without contrition is the worst kind of lie there is." His voice goes flat. "This world is better off without her."
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