by David Hosp
The three cars arrive within minutes of each other, and the police officers get out and quietly begin preparing themselves for the invasion. They put on bulletproof vests with POLICE marked in bright yellow on them, and trade in their hats for helmets. I see three other shotguns passed around.
Killkenny puts on a vest, but leaves off the helmet. My guess is that his vanity would never allow him to wear the helmet. ‘You two stay here,’ he says to us. ‘Once we have the all clear and we’ve arrested him, I’ll send for you, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Understood.’
Killkenny rallies his troops and they head out around the corner, and Yvette and I are left waiting by his car. There are no street lights in this part of town, and all of the dwellings around us are dark. The moon would cast a decent light, but the clouds have gathered low in the sky, blocking out the heavens. We are shrouded in darkness. I can hear Yvette breathing hard.
‘It’s okay,’ I say.
‘Tell that to Taylor Westerbrooke.’
‘That’s not your fault.’
‘No? Maybe not.’ She doesn’t sound convinced.
‘You think he’s in there?’ I ask.
She looks in the direction of the apartment, following the path Killkenny and his men took. ‘François? I don’t know. I hope so. I hope he’s there, and I hope they kill him.’
‘No trial?’
‘No trial, no lawyers, no appeal,’ Yvette says. ‘He didn’t give those girls any kind of justice. I don’t know why he would deserve any himself.’
‘I can see that,’ I say. ‘I want to know it all, though. I want to know how Gunta was involved, I want to know what this was all about, I want to know where this comes from. That can’t happen unless he’s taken alive.’
I see her shake her head slowly in the darkness. ‘I don’t care where this comes from. I just want it over.’
We hear the sound of wood splintering in the distance and shouts of, ‘Police! On the ground!’ Two shots ring out and there is an explosion of confused voices shouting over one another.
Yvette and I are leaning against Killkenny’s car, and we both stand straight at the commotion. ‘It sounds like you may have gotten your wish,’ I say. She takes two steps toward the apartment, but I grab her arm and hold her back. ‘He told us to stay here,’ I remind her.
‘I need to know what’s happening,’ she protests. ‘I need to see it for myself.’
‘I know,’ I say, ‘but we need to wait for them to come get us. We don’t know whether he’s dead or running. You go out there now and you’re putting everyone in danger. Not just yourself, but the cops too.’
She looks at me, and all I can see is the silhouette of her face. In what little light there is, I can see fresh tears running down her cheeks freely. I put one hand on her shoulder, and with the other I brush the tears away. ‘It’s gonna be okay,’ I say. ‘You have to believe that.’
‘Why?’
‘Otherwise you won’t make it through. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She nods.
There are footsteps coming from around the corner, running fast, toward us. I turn and put my body in front of Yvette, shielding her. A dark figure rounds the corner headed straight toward us. He stops twenty feet from us, and I still can’t make out any details.
‘Who’s there?’ I shout.
‘Officer Brody,’ the outline calls out. ‘Detective Killkenny sent me to get you. It’s all clear; he says it’s safe for you to come up.’
We follow Officer Brody back toward François’ apartment. Outside on the stoop two of the other cops are standing, helmets off, smoking cigarettes in silence. I walk ahead of Yvette, both of us moving somewhere between a fast walk and a run. We come to the front of the apartment and I glance at one of the officers and see the distant expression on his face. ‘How is it in there?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and nods toward the door. ‘See for yourself.’
I feel Yvette take my hand from behind me, and I walk up the stoop slowly, Yvette following. The interior is only dimly lit; there are few working lights. ‘Killkenny?’ I call. ‘Where are you?’
‘Back here,’ he answers from deep within the apartment.
I move toward the back of the apartment. The place is barren. Some rudimentary furniture stands in a central living room – a table with two plain wooden chairs pushed underneath it. A stand-up lamp in a corner of the room with a weak bulb that, thus far, is the only source of illumination I’ve seen. There is nothing on the walls. No pictures, no paintings, not even a poster to break up the expanse of plain plaster. We pass the other three officers coming down a short hallway leading to the rear of the apartment. ‘He’s back there,’ one of them says as he passes us. I catch a glimpse of his expression as he heads past me, and I think I can discern a smirk. As we continue down the hallway I hear murmurings from the cops, followed by stifled laughter.
Killkenny is in a back bedroom, examining the scene. There are no lights, and he is shining a flashlight from one corner to another. It’s like something out of a horror film. The walls are covered with hooks, and hanging from those hooks is a wide assortment of implements of torture. There are leather straps and chains, and restraints of every possible variety. Whips and cat-o’-nine-tails are segregated in one area, knives and other sharp implements in another, ball gags and collars in yet another. There is a shelf on the far wall, and vibrators and strap-on dildos are arranged with near-military precision. In one corner there is a mannequin outfitted in leather – masks, vests, bustiers, chaps.
‘Where is François?’ I ask.
‘Not here,’ Killkenny says.
‘But we heard gunshots,’ Yvette says. ‘Who was shooting?’
‘Officer Brody,’ Killkenny says. ‘He was the first into this room, and it was dark. He saw the mannequin in the back and told it to get on the ground. When it didn’t comply, he shot it.’ Killkenny moves over to the leather-clad plaster statue. ‘Twice.’ He shines the light close in on the chest, and I can see two bullet holes there. ‘Pretty good shots, really. It’s too bad; I probably would have done the same thing, but he’s never gonna hear the end of it. He’s only been on the job for six months, and this is gonna follow him for a long time.’
‘No sign of Michael?’ Yvette asks. ‘Nothing?’
‘I’m not sure I’d say nothing,’ Killkenny corrects her. ‘It certainly looks like we’ve got the right man. This guy has one hell of an active social life, from the looks of things.’ I’m moving around the room, looking more closely at the wide array of sexual implements. ‘Don’t touch anything,’ Killkenny says.
‘Right – like I’d touch anything in here.’
‘Fair enough. I want to get our forensics guys in here, see if there’s any DNA on any of this stuff that matches any of the dead girls.’
‘You don’t think you’ve got enough evidence yet?’
‘So far it’s all circumstantial,’ Killkenny points out. ‘It’s all rational supposition, and it might even be enough for a conviction, but you’d be amazed what a good lawyer can do with a case if there’s no direct evidence.’
‘You mean even after you catch him, he could walk?’ Yvette sounds despondent.
‘Don’t stress out too much. There’s hairbrushes and toothbrushes here, so we’ve got enough DNA to match against the semen in the Westerbrooke girl. That’ll be enough for at least one conviction. I’m just saying I’d like to nail him down for all of these murders.’
I can see Yvette shiver at the callous way Killkenny refers to Taylor Westerbrooke. She’s still holding my hand, and I give it a squeeze to remind her that I’m there for her.
‘You’re not gonna nail him for anything if you don’t catch him first,’ I point out.
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Killkenny says. ‘You ever thought about going into law enforcement?’
‘So what now?’ Yvette asks, cutting short the argument.
‘Now we put out
an APB on Michael François. We make sure that every cop in Boston has a good description of this guy. We get a picture from the company, and from the Department of Corrections, and we plaster it on every place we can, so if this guy pops his head up even for a second, we’ll know about it.’
‘That’s not enough,’ I say.
‘If you’ve got an idea where this asshole might be, I’m all ears,’ Killkenny says. I get the feeling that he’s losing patience with my meddling. I don’t care, though; if I can help advance the investigation, that’s what I intend to do.
‘I don’t have any idea where he might be,’ I say. ‘But I know someone who might.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘I don’t like this,’ Killkenny says. ‘I don’t like this at all. This asshole’s got a lawyer, and if anyone finds out I’m talking to him without his lawyer here, they could have my badge. Or at least bust me down a rank or two.’
We’re in an interrogation room at the Boston City Jail, tucked in an industrial section of the city back behind TD Garden, where the Celtics and Bruins play, and where Disney On Ice delights kids every Christmas. We dropped Yvette at home and told her that we would keep her informed if there were any developments.
‘You’re not talking to him – I am,’ I point out to Killkenny.
‘You’re acting as an agent of the police. It’s the same thing as if I were talking to him. Once he’s lawyered up, nothing we get from him is admissible. It can’t even be used to find anything else that might be admissible. It’s known as the “fruit of the poisonous tree”.’
‘Colorful.’
‘Lawyers are assholes,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t matter, though – it’s the law. If I learn anything that implicates him, even if it’s something he tells you, there’s nothing I can do with it.’
‘You can use it to find François,’ I point out. ‘Even if you can’t use it to convict Gunta, who cares? Right now, all we should care about is finding the guy who’s out there killing these girls. And you know he’s gonna do it again. Like you said, he’s got a taste for it. If anything, he’s only gonna pick up the pace.’
Killkenny knows I’m right; I can see it on his face. A buzzer sounds from an intercom on the wall. ‘He’ll be here in a minute,’ Killkenny says. ‘I’m not listening in; that way I’ve got some deniability. The only thing I want to hear when this is over is whether Gunta has any idea where François might be. That’s it, you understand?’
‘Yeah, I got it.’
He hesitates.
‘You better get out of here if you want to preserve that deniability,’ I say.
He nods. ‘Buzz twice when you’re done.’
The buzzer sounds again, and the door opens. Dr Santar Gunta stands in the doorway, shackled at both the wrists and ankles. It makes me think of the restraints at Michael François’ apartment. He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit and prison-issued slippers. He looks ten years older than he did the last time I saw him.
‘Doc,’ I say.
He looks at me, and looks at the guard behind him. The guard pushes him through the door and says to me, ‘You’ve got five minutes.’ I nod, and he closes the door.
I take a seat at the Formica-covered table. ‘Sit,’ I say, kicking the chair across from me out from under the table.
He stands there for a moment before, giving in, he shuffles over and sits across from me. ‘How is it in here?’
He stares at me. ‘Why are you here, Nick? What more could you possibly want from me?’
‘The truth.’
‘There is no truth.’ His chin goes to his chest and he looks like he’d eat a bullet if he had a gun. I wonder whether I can use that to my advantage.
‘He killed another one,’ I say. Gunta looks up quickly, and I can see it in his eyes. He knows it, too – he knows I’ve seen it. ‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His voice is desperate and he’s shaking.
‘Yes, you do. I don’t even care whether you knew or you were involved, I just want to know where he is. I want to make sure he doesn’t kill again. You want that too, don’t you? You don’t want him to hurt anyone else.’
He shakes his head violently, not in answer to my question, but as though he was trying to get something off him; as though he was trying to shake free from some sort of spell. After a moment he goes still. ‘He was better,’ he says. ‘He was cured, I know he was. I tested him myself, and he . . . ’ He looks up at me. ‘He was so beautiful, and so smart. I’ve never seen someone so good with the technology. And when he was in prison we tested him again and again, to make sure he was right again – to make sure all his impulses were under control. He passed; he was cured.’
‘He beat the tests. He wasn’t cured.’
‘He was!’ Gunta looks off at the wall. ‘But those in prison wouldn’t let him out. There was a group in there that reveled in the violence, and they used him, and he couldn’t let it go. That’s why he’s striking out, don’t you see?’
‘I don’t care why he’s doing it. I just want him stopped.’
‘You want to put him back there. Don’t you understand what that will do to him? He will be lost forever. He was cured, and now he’ll be lost forever. I can’t lose him like that. I can’t.’
‘Doc, you’ve lost him already. If we know where he is, we can find him, and stop him, and do it without hurting him. But if he continues, he’s gonna end up getting killed by some cop. You see that, don’t you? I need your help.’
He shakes his head. ‘I cannot betray him.’
‘You’re not betraying him. You’re saving him.’
Gunta looks at me, and I can tell that he’s trying to decide whether to believe me. He’s trying to decide whether to tell me.
‘If you don’t help me, you will be responsible for the next woman to die. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?’
‘It’s not my fault!’ The desperation is back in his voice.
‘No? The laptop he used to create these things was yours. It was never lost; you gave it to him, didn’t you?’
‘I did not know what he was using it for!’ he pleads.
‘Maybe not, but you know now. And you knew two days ago, when we first talked about this. If you’d told the truth then, at least one girl wouldn’t have died.’
This concept seems to shake him back to reality a bit. I can see some clarity return to his eyes. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’
‘But you do have some idea where he might be.’
He nods slightly; almost an imperceptible movement.
‘Tell me. I can help him.’
‘You won’t hurt him?’
‘I’ll make sure he’s not hurt.’ It’s a lie, but a small one under the circumstances, I figure.
Gunta looks around him, almost as though he’s worried that someone might overhear. I can see that the ordeal has broken him, and I wonder whether he can make it back from this. I doubt it, but that is the least of my concerns at the moment. ‘He has a key to my house,’ he says. ‘I always said that if he needed a place to be safe, he could come there. We spent time there together. He was so beautiful. You understand, don’t you?’
‘I think so, Doc. If he’s not there, is there any other place you can think of that he might be?’
He shakes his head. ‘If he is not there, he is lost.’
I stand and walk over to the door, hit the buzzer twice. A moment later the door is opened by the guard.
‘You done?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, I’m done.’ I start out through the door.
‘Nick!’ Gunta calls to me.
‘Yeah?’
‘You’ll make sure he’s not hurt? You’ll protect him, won’t you?’
‘Yeah, Doc. I’ll take care of him.’
Gunta lives in a mansion at the northern edge of Hull, north of Nantasket Beach. It’s only a few miles as the crow flies from downtown Boston, but to get there by land we have to drive al
l the way around Boston Harbor and it takes us nearly an hour. Hull is a seven-mile peninsula that sticks up from the south shore of Boston Harbor and curls like a hook back against the mainland. The beachfront is a honky-tonk with arcades and bars and seaside concessions selling fried clams and fried fish and fried dough. Killkenny’s driving and I’m in his passenger seat, watching as the shoreline rolls by. It’s too far out, and too much of a long shot, to have backup with us; we’re on our own.
‘How sure was he?’ Killkenny asks.
‘I don’t know. He’s not all there anymore,’ I say. ‘It’s clear he and François had a thing together.’
‘François is gay? How can that be?’
‘I don’t think he’s gay, he’s an amoralist. The Marquis de Sade didn’t discriminate in his sexual tastes. He was originally imprisoned for sodomy with a young boy. His writings involve violations of both men and women. If François sees himself as the heir to De Sade’s ideals, he would have no problem in using Gunta sexually and playing on the older man’s obsession with him to get what he wanted.’
‘So he likes boys and girls?’
‘He likes violence. He likes control. He doesn’t worry about who his victims are, one way or the other. He’s looking to wipe away the constraints of morality.’
‘He’s been successful there,’ Killkenny says.
We drive on, past the bungalows in the heart of Hull, where the population is hard and tired. Notwithstanding its proximity to some of the most beautiful beachfront in Massachusetts, Hull has largely withstood the onslaught of renewal. It’s remote enough that its residents have stood in solidarity against interlopers.
There are only a few outsiders who have taken over some of the large houses at the north end, looking out on Boston. Gunta’s house sits on the cliffs that fall off into the harbor. It’s a refurbished Georgian-style beach house with broad porches sweeping around the entire perimeter, and decks on the second and third floors. It’s early morning when we arrive, and the sun is rising over the Harbor Islands to the east. There’s a Mercedes M-Class sedan in the driveway, which is flanked by dune grass rippling in the breeze coming off the water. It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.
