by Ben Miller
“Yep,” Bob said as he turned to follow her. “You can go in, Special Agent Byrne.”
The guard on the other side of the door closed it behind Jack and showed him to the familiar and unreasonably uncomfortable chair. Within a minute Randall appeared opposite him. He lacked his typical Cheshire grin. He seemed almost serene.
Randall picked up the telephone receiver to his right. “Evenin’, Jack.”
For the first time in all his trips here, Jack felt something other than hatred and repulsion for the murderer on the other side of the glass. Perhaps a small pang of empathy began to set in. “How are you doing, Randall?” he asked genuinely.
“Good,” Randall replied. “Or as good as one could be in my position. I know it’s only the trial that starts tomorrow, but, with the expedited, publicized nature of all of it, it feels more like I’m headed for the gallows.”
“I thought you reveled in the publicity,” Jack posited.
“I did.” Randall nodded and paused, no humor in his demeanor. “I was very ill, Jack.”
Jack wondered if he was catching a glimpse of remorse. He decided not to pursue it; he worried that a small hint of regret from Randall might make Jack’s touch of empathy swell into full-fledged pity. Going into trial he couldn’t let anything stand in the way of his support for Vicki and her plight for the death penalty for Randall. So, Jack decided to change the subject, a particular talent of his.
“We got our man in Boston.”
Randall perked up. “The Piper? How did he know his victims?”
“We’re still piecing that together. Our working theory is that the first two were mere acquaintances, and his true target was the third woman—his former girlfriend and mother of his child.”
“Acquaintances?” Randall held his breath for a moment, looking distressed, as if he were trying to stifle a burp from rising up through his chest. “I don’t buy it,” he exhaled.
Jack’s expectation of this exact response is what drove him here tonight. He needed Randall’s skepticism to give credence to his own. “Why? What are we missing?”
“Why the ‘Hey?’ He must have had a purpose for calling out to these women before rendering them helpless. Perhaps doing it just the first time would be some kind of nervous reflex. But it’s precisely the same in both instances: he calls out ‘Hey’ twice prior to the attack. It’s planned, and it must have meaning.”
“What, though? What’s the meaning?” Jack tried to push Randall. He wanted him to have more information, to be holding back and, with a little more pressure, let forth his hypothesis.
Randall shook his head but remained silent. Jack scooted forward, moving to the edge of his sadistic seat. While holding the phone to his right ear, Randall brought his left hand up to his chin and rubbed the flat surface of his thumbnail back-and-forth across his lips. It took Jack several seconds to realize that Randall mimicked him in this gesture, one Jack often does during pensive moments. How does he know that? Jack wondered. He fought to suppress this curiosity; he needed to focus on obtaining more insight into the Piper.
“I don’t know,” Randall finally responded.
Jack sat back, disappointed. “Nothing? I’m sure you have some thoughts on this—you’ve been thinking about this angle for the past few days.”
Randall raised his eyebrows and spoke with his signature condescension. “Oh, dear Jack. I’ve had a lot more to think about over these last few days than your little case.”
Jack looked away. Like a disembodied spirit seeking a human form to inhabit, his disgust for Randall jumped back into him. “I know. I’m sure you have.” He tried to sound genuine in his apology, and he almost succeeded. “I’m just looking for some help here. I think I agree with you, but I have nothing to go on except my gut. And yours.”
“It’s a diversion,” Randall blurted, more than just a hint of certainty in his voice.
“A diversion? How so?”
“Exactly. How.”
Jack pulled back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and leaned forward toward the glass, trying his best to intimidate Randall. “Do you know more than you’re telling me?”
Randall met Jack’s eyes, clearly not moved by Jack’s imposing posture. He inched forward toward his side of the glass divider. “No.”
“Don’t fuck with me Randall. Don’t play me.”
Randall’s face softened, attempting to express his own version of empathy. “Jack, would I do that to you?”
“Time and time again.” Jack stood up and slammed the phone on its hook. He turned and walked away.
The guard at the back of Jack’s room began to open up the door when Randall pounded his fist on the thick plate of glass. Jack stopped but did not turn around.
“Jack!” Randall shouted, prompting Jack to spin to face him. Jack noticed the guard on Randall’s side approaching Randall from behind. Jack moved briskly back to the glass as Randall’s guard began to restrain him.
“This!” Randall shouts again, having dropped the phone receiver. “This is his diversion! Throwing you off! He’s the one fucking with you, Jack!”
44
“Which one?”
Carl Coulter looked up from the book in his hands to see his wife Amy standing before him, a dress in each hand. In her right she held a royal blue satin number cut low in the back. Her left hand supported a yellow dress with a pattern of flowers sparsely decorating the top half. A knit sweater, black to match the outline of the flower design, hung over it. Carl pointed to the latter and went back to staring at his book.
Amy turned the yellow dress toward herself. “Do you think this one looks too stupid? Too simple?”
You are stupid and simple, Carl wanted to say, but he thought better of it. He didn’t have the energy for the colossal fight that would ensue. “No. It’s nice. Sensible. Like you’re a mother in mourning.”
He didn’t use the word “like” to mean “resembling,” but instead “as if.” He knew Amy wouldn’t pick up on this, though. Again, probably for the better.
Amy regarded the blue dress on her right with her head tilted. She scrunched her nose. “I think I like this one better,” she said and walked out of the room.
Her behavior these past several weeks appalled and shamed Carl. The term “media whore” came to mind on several occasions. Carl struggled to get out of bed every day, the weight of the aching for his daughter Danielle almost too much for his scrawny legs to overcome. But not Amy. Instead of bearing this weight on her shoulders, she apparently chose to stand on top of it, to let it buoy her. She seemed to embrace it. She relished the attention. She had dragged him onto Good Morning, America last week, talking about it for weeks, like some high-school girl gearing up for prom. Her behavior and her demeanor made Carl want to puke. In fact, he literally vomited in the hotel that morning before going to the studio.
He had tried self-help books, like the one he held now. But nothing seemed to resonate with him. The psychologists could study grief all they want, but they hadn’t lived it. The tragedy survivors found strength in their family, their friends, and their faith, but Carl couldn’t rely on any of these. His family—including, if not especially, Amy—sucked. His friends disappeared—much easier than facing the sad guy whose daughter got killed during the annual soccer tournament. He had never been a very spiritual person.
He had tried going to church. Amy had refused to accompany him, reciting “You can’t petition the Lord with prayer” like it was rote, as if it had been chanted at her countless times during her childhood until she learned to repeat it. To his surprise, he had found church peaceful. But the feeling was fleeting, disappearing as soon as he returned home. The pastor—a kind and soft-spoken man with a pockmarked face—even sought him out one day after services and asked if he wanted to talk. Carl went back with him to the rectory and spent the next few hours there, telling him about Danielle. The pastor offered words of solace, encouragement, and love, none of which Carl had experienced from anyone before. His inf
luence lasted much longer than any single Mass had, but, after a few days, the crushing depression returned.
Therefore, after searching for lasting tranquility and finding none, Carl had planned to kill himself. After some deliberation these last several days, he had plotted out the when, the how, and the where. He figured he would wait until after Randall Franklin’s trial. He needed to see justice carried out for his little girl. For the method, he figured he would shoot himself through the mouth with his shotgun. The location was the easiest part. He knew precisely where he would take his own life the moment he decided to do so.
45
His wife Jennifer snored loudly beside him, but Mario Cugino couldn’t sleep. He clocked through the anticipated activities of tomorrow in his mind. He had the courthouse address programmed into his GPS. He had read online that those supporting the prosecutors, such as a victim’s family, would traditionally sit on the right side of the courtroom. He even had scouted out a place with a nice-looking soup and sandwich combo for lunch.
Despite the fact he had no idea what to expect—he had never witnessed a murder trial before, except on TV or in the movies—he next tried to sweep through the permutations of tomorrow’s proceedings. He imagined himself on the prosecutors’ team, even though he didn’t know the particulars of their case. He tried to think of all the evidence they would present, chief among which would surely be the live footage from The Goodnight Hour. He envisioned the possible objections the defense team would make to certain points in the case and devised counters, all of which got upheld by his fantasy judge.
Mario couldn’t conceive of Randall Franklin’s defense. After all, the lunatic had broadcast his crimes to the entire world on one of the most-watched shows in the history of cable TV. He felt excitement grow within him to finally hear how Franklin’s attorney—that slimy Victor Upshall—would try to get his shithead client off. He couldn’t wait to punch holes in it from his seat in the gallery, confident the prosecution would easily do the same.
After contemplating all this, Mario decided he would spend most of his time watching the jury, monitoring their reactions to every facet of the case. He needed to know they would see things the way he did. The Right Way. The Way of Justice. If they didn’t, he had no hesitation in enacting his back-up plan. Life would be much easier, however, if the members of the jury could simply do their jobs and sentence J. Randall Franklin to death.
46
Stanton Newkirk lay awake in his bed. He no longer tried to keep his eyes shut. Every time he tried to close them, they sprang back open, as if propped up by some invisible twig. His mind conjured up the image of Malcolm McDowell from A Clockwork Orange made to watch pornographic videos in order to desensitize him.
He struggled with whether he should try to grasp the enormity of what he had done. He questioned his decision and wondered if it were too late to take it back, to do something differently. He surmised that it was, and he knew this type of thinking fathered doubt. He could not afford doubt, literally or figuratively. He had come too far and done too much to effect any other outcome at this point.
Instead he tried to focus on Kim, breathing heavily and steadily beside him. He pictured her happy and fulfilled, finally having an outlet for all of her nurturing instincts. This one act—or, technically, the culminating action in a long series of acts—would change their lives forever. And he couldn’t wait for what lay ahead.
It was this excitement that prevented sleep from coming. It was neither doubt nor guilt. When he finally convinced himself of this, he succeeded in shutting his eyes. However, steady sleep would never come his way that night.
47
The smell. That fucking stench. Randall put his forearm over his nose, breathing in the scent of his own skin, a trick he had learned early during his confinement. Lately, though, the Pungent Prison Fungus—his name for this distinctive odor, as he imagined it had something to do with a unique species of mold growing inside all of the walls around him—had found its way onto his skin. They must inoculate the soap with it too, he had decided. Soon—a matter of weeks, maybe sooner—it would invade his soul, and no amount of cleansing could rid him of that awful, disgusting stench.
Tomorrow, for the first time in over four months, he would breathe fresh air. He had forgotten what that was like. He never realized how much he could miss something so mundane. Hatred of banality had driven him to horrendous acts, and now he yearned for it. He despised that he craved something so ubiquitous, but he could not deny it.
He wished he hadn’t toyed with Jack so immediately this evening. He sensed that he had fooled Jack into developing a modicum of compassion for him at the onset of their interaction, with his feigning despondence. He realized he turned too quickly toward presenting an enigmatic façade when discussing the Piper’s identity. He had no idea who perpetrated these crimes, but he felt certain that whoever had was much more clever than Jack and his team assumed. The first two kidnappings, which Randall had studied extensively, were too meticulously planned for any part of it to be haphazard. Every detail bore significance.
He wondered how much exposure to fresh air it would take to eliminate the Pungent Prison Fungus from his system. Hopefully it would react like carbon monoxide poisoning, where exposure to normal ambient air for only a brief period of time can halt the effects of the toxic gas. He prayed that by this time tomorrow he could put his arm to his nose again without sensing a hint of Pungent Prison Fungus.
Randall had grown to appreciate his alliance with Corinne O’Loughlin. Like the best relationships, while they could focus on accomplishing a common goal, both of their individual needs got met as well. They shared a drive for fame that superseded any other influence. He admired her passion for making a name for herself; he sensed that she appreciated how well he could identify with this, better than anyone else alive. They would prove a formidable pair, as many would soon find out, though few if any would know the depth of their association. This suited Randall just fine. As much as he coveted the limelight, he also enjoyed plotting clandestine schemes and carrying them out behind the scenes.
He knew he had a monumental day ahead of him tomorrow, and another after that. Despite his excitement for all that would transpire in the days to come, he recognized the need to rest well in preparation. His grandest performance to date would begin in the morning. So Randall closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, probably the most restful he had since entering this putrid cell.
DAY SIX:
MONDAY
48
The sudden rush of emotion had ambushed Heath Reilly. In an effort to prevent the tears that had formed a well within his lower eyelid from overflowing down his face, he averted his gaze skyward, tilting his head toward the gray clouds overhead. He hadn’t seen anyone else around when he jogged up here, yet he could feel his cheeks flush with embarrassment. His sentiments of sadness, shame, and anger mixed together to create a confusing palette, like blobs of finger paint at an impatient toddler’s workstation blending into a deep brown.
He had never cried for his mother before. This realization made him feel less ashamed. Every child should grieve at the loss of a parent, he supposed. Even a drug-addled abandoner like her.
Corinne had left a note in his hotel room before she flew back to DC last night, disclosing the location of his mother’s grave, in case he changed his mind and decided to visit. She had signed it, “Love, Corinne,” which had probably served as Reilly’s final inspiration to seek out this emotional journey. (The “love” was actually a hand-drawn heart and not the four-letter word itself, but it had nurtured his spirit nevertheless.) When Jeff Pine had texted him this morning to postpone their morning debriefing until 10:00—citing an unexpected but trivial family issue—Reilly had decided to go for a jog. He had not exercised since coming to Boston four days ago. What better place to find a peaceful run than in a cemetery, he had thought. He had spent more time at gravesites in the last three days than he had in his whole life.
&n
bsp; “Modest” was probably the kindest word he could use to describe his mother’s headstone. An unadorned piece of granite—etched only with her name, birth date, and death date—it lay flat in the ground, parallel with her body, grass covering each of the four corners. He imagined that within another decade the entire stone would succumb to the slowly invading grass such that his mother would spend the rest of eternity in an unmarked grave. It had taken Reilly the majority of the last half-hour just to find it.
He had never really experienced loss before. Perhaps when he had to leave the Dellahunts’ home as a child would be the closest thing. By then, though, bouncing around from one home to another so many times had numbed him. He would have been incapable of feeling loss. He had broken up with a handful or women in the past, but none of them had affected him enough to consider it an event worthy of bereavement.
The thought of losing Corinne gave him pause. While he couldn’t conceive of any reason for them to split up—in fact, he had never been involved in a more fulfilling, balanced relationship—he felt another wave of extreme sadness even at the notion of her leaving. Best not to dwell on that one moment longer, he decided. Fortuitously, his phone rang, granting an escape.
“Heath Reilly,” he announced, even though he had already noticed Jackson Byrne’s name on the display.
“Hey, Heath, it’s Jack. I was hoping you could look into something for me today.”
“Sure!” Reilly replied, quickly dialing down the exuberance. Seeming overeager to help Jack, now so far away, might cede some of Reilly’s current power and influence. “Probably. We have our debriefing coming up in about an hour, so I’m not sure what Jeff and I will be putting together as our plan for the day. Whatcha need?”
