Ten minutes later, I was ready to crawl out of my skin. This journey had been long and painful. Aaron was alive. His quality of life, however, had fallen under question. Rachel and I had been fighting the court with every reasonable argument for the reinstatement of my guardianship, not the least of which being that I was, in fact, his father. By some inane technicality, the judge maintained that I was still not eligible to take on legal guardianship. Something pertaining to my current inability to provide financial support.
My head bowed and fists clenched, words of wisdom came to me.
One step at a time. In His time.
I shut my eyes, held fast to that thought, tethered to all my hopes of seeing that promise fulfilled. It's going to be fine.
"You okay there?" I opened my eyes and she was standing there. I had forgotten that she was coming along with the D.D.A.
I took a slow, deep breath. Tried to smile. "Hello, Rachel."
Dodd stepped in front of her and shook my hand. I wanted to go to Rachel, but my chains were fastened to a heavy steel screw eye, imbedded into the concrete floor. I sank back into my chair.
"Mister Hudson, Kenny Dodd. Remember me?" His hair was cut short, but still golden. Though it had only been a few years, he seemed to have aged and put on a few pounds since the last time I saw him. In court at the prosecution table next to Walden. Gone were the tan, the sheepdog bangs, and the sleepy surfer eyes. Working for the D.A.'s office probably left him little time for surfing. Or exercising. He should try prison.
"You're late, dude."
"Technical difficulties." Dodd pointed to his laptop bag.
"I haven't forgotten."
"Yeah, well. That was like, three years ago." He tugged at his collar.
Rachel took a seat across the table. I kept trying to make eye contact but she managed to avoid it. I had at least expected a smile.
"Let's get started, shall we?" Dodd said.
"Rachel?" I wanted to at least ask her a question or two. She glanced my way, then back down to a stack of papers within a manila legal folder. "I'm only here to ensure that everything's done legitimately," she said with cool professionalism.
"We're off the record, Ms. Cheng," said the D.D.A.
"I know." Back to her stack of papers.
Dodd opened his laptop, unzipped a square case full of disks, popped a shiny silver one into the DVD drive, and turned the LCD towards me. As soon as the image appeared, he hit a button, pausing it. "We need to know if Brent Stringer's statement is consistent with what you recall the night you found your family attacked."
On the screen, Stringer's face was calm, his eyes benign. That he was a murderer, you'd never know it to look at him. Until now, I'd only seen his post-arrest pictures in the newspaper. Now, an acrid brew of anger and disgust boiled within me. In vain, I struggled to wring words from my lips. Instead, a hissing sound emerged as I took a breath.
Dodd crinkled his brow. "I know this must be difficult for you, Mister Hudson. But we're calling you as a witness for the prosecution. Do you think you'll be able to handle this?" I could only stare at those eyes on the screen. So innocuous, so matter of fact. It made him all the more monstrous. "Mister Hudson?"
"Yes. Yes, of course. Let's get this over with."
He reached over and tapped the laptop's charcoal touchpad and resumed the playback. A chill ran through my body as the off-camera voice of District Attorney Thomas Walden started the interview. "Mister Stringer, you've been read your Miranda rights but have waived your right to legal counsel at this time. Is that correct?"
I watched for a hint, anything that might indicate that Stringer was being coerced or mentally incompetent. But he smiled, smoothed a wrinkle on his orange prison shirt, leaned forward and rested his chin on his cuffed hands. "That is correct."
"Do you understand the charges?" said Walden.
"Don't patronize me."
"Murder, rape, aggravated assault, rape of a minor—"
Stringer flicked his fingers, sweeping away the D.A.'s words as if they were stale crumbs. "And you ask if I understand? One might actually infer that you were calling me a criminal."
"And just what would you call yourself?"
"To put it simply, such that even someone as simple as you can understand, you can think of me as..." Once again, he gave an endearing smile, as if explaining something to a child. "... a deity." I wanted to smash the screen.
The interview went on for another ten minutes, during which time Walden got only a little more cooperation, despite his harsh tone and threats. Stringer confessed to the Matt Kingsley murders. When pressed for why or how, he simply dismissed the questions. "Child-minds cannot possibly appreciate such matters."
The more Walden squeezed, the more condescending Stringer became. "Just how many deaths are you responsible for?" The D.A. asked.
"Oh, let me think." Stringer looked up as if the answer was written on the ceiling. "I would say, roughly—and, mind you, this is over the course of eleven years... twenty-four."
"Twenty-Four!"
"Oh please. Don't overreact. There are billions of people on this planet. Nobody's going to miss twenty-four of them. Really, it's not a big deal." Given all a district attorney routinely face, Walden's pause surprised me. But not as much as when Stringer redirected the discussion. "I was up to fifteen when one particular subject caught my attention."
"Sam Hudson?"
"You've done your homework. Very good." If his hands were free, he would undoubtedly have reached over and patted Walden on the head. "Now, Tommy-boy, what do Matt Kingsley, Kevin Scherer, John Bauman and Samuel Hudson have in common?"
"They've all been charged with multiple counts of first degree murder and rape. All domestic."
"Very good, Tommy-boy." He took a deep breath and let out a self-satisfied sigh. "Now, every divinity has his favored subjects. Each of them—Matt, Kevin, John and Sam—were granted the honor of my incarnation, my taking on their likeness, if you will."
"But why them?"
"Because they were worthy. They had each distinguished themselves. Each of them had gained a certain degree of notoriety. I hand-picked them."
"For what? Going to prison in your place?"
"Prison?" Stringer chuckled. "An unfortunate inconvenience. No, I have chosen them as the subjects of my creation."
"You don't mean—"
"Only if you're bright enough to imagine."
"Research for your books?"
"How better to identify with the visceral reactions to such heady matters? Watching a spouse die in your arms, seeing your child battered, atoning for the sins of the father? Don't you see? I am the creator, my word, inspired."
"Last time I looked in Border's, your novels were listed under fiction."
"Ah, but the verisimilitude, the authority. It all lies in the genuine responses of the characters I create. My chosen subjects have been transfigured by a sacrificial atonement. They are immortalized in my word."
"Wait," Walden said. "What was that book, The Shadow of Death? The protagonist, James Colson. He's based on Matt Kingsley, isn't he?"
Stringer lifted his bound hands into the air. "He's seen the light!"
"And Kevin Scherer," Walden said, his voice rising in pitch. "Timothy Edwards in Prowl."
"My glory is manifest."
"And Sam Hudson," he said with a finality that twisted my entrails. "How did I miss that?"
"How? I'll tell you how." Stringer lowered his gaze at the camera. The smile was gone. "You got your conviction. Hudson was history. You moved on, moved up. You weren't interested in the truth."
Kenny Dodd leaned over and whispered to me, "We'll move to strike on that one."
Walden continued to ask questions, laying the foundation for the case he would present against Stringer, who seemed all too happy to volunteer information. "You're obviously proud of your work."
"In the book of Genesis," said Stringer, "at the end of each creation day I proclaimed all my work as good."
<
br /> "With one exception."
Stringer tilted his head to one side. "Really? I'm intrigued."
"I'm intrigued that you're intrigued."
"Please, you must tell me."
"There was one thing, one situation that God had created which he said was not good."
"No." Stringer leaned forward, his countenance glowing. "Pray tell me."
"It was in His final act of creation."
"I would have remembered."
"He said, it is not good for the man to be alone."
Stringer's eyes grew wide. He blinked. "Well there's got to be a mistake in the translation."
"Not likely. It says God created woman in reaction to the man being alone. And you basically made sure that those innocent men would be alone till the day they die."
Stringer shrugged. "Divine prerogative."
"Now, if your highness would so kindly indulge us. How did you do it?"
Stringer leaned back into his chair. A disturbing grin stretched across his mouth. "Are you offering anything?"
"Get real. I've got your life in my hands."
Stringer shook his head. His chest heaved and the patronizing smile returned. He rested his cuffed hands in his lap and said, "I work in mysterious ways. But I suppose my subjects could benefit from knowing."
I almost asked the D.D.A. to turn it off. But I had to know how he'd accomplished taking away all that was dear to me and pinning it on me.
Chapter Eighty-One
Anita had managed to avoid Brent Stringer since the arrest. Let the stupid pencil pushers handle the administrative crap from his incarceration. She took a few days personal leave, with the excuse of a family matter. In truth, she spent two of those days in a bathrobe, in bed with a box of Godivas.
She'd never actually had any physical contact with her cyber-lover, but when she learned who he really was, what he'd done? Three or four hot showers a day weren't enough. The filth was so deep, she feared it would never wash off. After a few sessions with a useless therapist, she'd just have to return to work feeling dirty.
Anita drummed her fingertips on the splintery arm of a wooden bench. Waiting outside the doctor's office at San Diego Central's Auxiliary Psych Unit made her anxious. Perhaps she belonged on the other side of the door. But when she considered who was in there, more than likely shooting the breeze, charming the psychologists, manipulating them as he'd done to so many others, a chill ran up her neck to the very top of her scalp. So much so that she had to scratch her head and grunt in frustration.
"You okay there, Detective?" Lieutenant O'Brien said, he and another uniformed Sheriff flanking her.
"Yeah. Fine." She wasn't. Her shrink had encouraged her to confront Stringer. But she'd never been a victim. Damned if she was going to start being one now. The thought made her sick. And yet, this was her pain. It was real. Too real.
"You don't have to be here," O'Brien said, crouching down to meet her eyes. "Davis and I can take him back."
"It's okay, Jim," Anita replied, twirling her hair in her fingers. "I have to question him once more before—" She pictured herself sitting alone in a room with him and became aware of her pulse increasing, her palms sticking to the varnish-worn bench arm.
"Doesn't the D.A. handle that now?" Corporal Davis said.
"In general, yes. But I haven't finished filing my report. I just need five minutes with the suspect. Paperwork."
"We'll stay during the questioning, if that'll make you feel safer." Jim patted her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.
She recoiled and let out an embarrassing gasp. "No!" She put a hand to her chest and exhaled slowly. "I mean... that won't be necessary. He'll be completely restrained and I'm armed. You're not allowed to be present for these questions."
"What?"
"Some kind of new State law, I think." Truth was, she didn't want anyone to know about the cyber affair. "You understand, don't you?"
"I suppose." He stood up and waited by the door. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Closure might not be all it was cracked up to be. Anita stood up and got ready to tell Jim never mind.
But just then, the locks clicked and turned. Anita tensed up. The door squeaked open and the sound of footfalls blended with the counterpoint of chains scraping on the hard tiled floor. Getting louder, closer. Anita stood and fast-walked towards the elevator.
Closer.
She stopped.
"Detective?" Jim said.
Closer.
She kept her back to the entire group. Stay or go? This would be her only chance before Stringer became completely inaccessible behind a legal wall.
The chains stopped. The relentless hammering of her heart filled her mind.
"Anita! How nice to see you."
Plastering on the toughest, coldest mien she could conjure up, Anita made up her mind. She could handle this. She needed to face him. She was ready. Before she even turned around, she said, "Mister Stringer, I'm going to need to ask you a few—"
"Not without me present," said a petite, but bitchy-looking woman whose eyes were reminiscent of the Tasmanian Devil Anita saw last month in the San Diego Zoo.
The detective approached but kept a healthy distance. Brent smiled at her with boyish innocence. She quickly averted her eyes back to the beady-eyed woman at his side.
"And just who are you?" Anita said.
She whipped out a business card and stuck it under Anita's nose. "Bauer. Jodi Bauer." Minimalist business card, polar white, the name typed in a 3-point font under the firm's name: Chatham, Young & Bauer.
"Jodi the Piranha?"
The attorney smirked. "One in the same. You are not going to so much as wink at my client without me present."
Stringer shrugged. "Helen of Troy never felt so desired." Neither woman responded.
"You watch yourself, Detective," the Piranha said. "I've got a list of constitutional rights violations as long as my client's novels. And you, being the arresting officer, are cited repeatedly."
"That supposed to scare me?
"You're either scared or stupid."
Anita rushed forward and got right into the Piranha's face. Close enough to see the whites of her razor teeth. Jim grabbed the detective's elbow and restrained her. Though it didn't stop her from jabbing a finger at the attorney's face. "You're defending a bottom-feeding scum-bag. I can think of a few choice words for people like you."
"Legal watchdog, protector of human rights—"
"I was thinking more of the four letter variety."
"Officer O'Brien, may we go now?" Jodi said.
He released Anita's arm. "Detective?"
She glowered at Stringer and his lawyer. They both wore stupid smiles. Now more than ever, she wanted to have it out with the creep. Let him know what she thought of him. Hell, she'd even pistol whip him, bitch-slap him, and dig her stilettos into his privates!
But this would never happen with Jodi Bauer present.
"Fine. Take him."
Chapter Eighty-Two
"Can we take a break, counsel?" Rachel said as Kenny Dodd popped the first DVD out of his laptop.
"We're just about to get to the part that we need Sam to verify," Dodd replied.
I looked to Rachel and nodded. I was okay to continue.
"I need a few minutes to confer with my client," Rachel said.
"That's fine," Dodd got up. "Back in ten." When he left, Rachel came over. She slid a chair and sat beside me. "How are you Sam?"
"Fine, you?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead she set a stack of legal papers on the table in front of me. "These are for your hearing tomorrow. It's going to be one of the quickest exonerations ever because Walden knows that—"
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing." She adjusted her glasses, her eyes never leaving the ever spreading pile of documents. "What are you talking about?"
"Why are you being so, I don't know, professional?"
"Because that's exactly what you need me to be righ
t now." Making little x's on the pages where my signature was required, she continued flipping the pages.
"We're still friends, aren't we?"
"Sign these, please." She pushed over the first stack, pointed to the signature line and handed me a pen. I did as she asked, but kept waiting to see if she'd make eye contact. She didn't.
After ten pages and zero words exchanged, I finally said, "What's going on? Why are you being this way?"
"What way?"
"So distant, impersonal."
She turned and faced me. Finally. Behind her glasses, her eyes were red and shimmering. "Do we have to talk about it now?"
"I just want to understand. Did something happen?"
"No. It's just that..." she bit her lip and frowned. Then turned her back to me and wiped her face. "It's no good."
The serial killer who called himself Kitsume had been caught, I was about to get exonerated, what wasn't good? I reached out but I hesitated for a moment. She took a deep breath but didn't turn around. Then I touched her shoulder. She seemed to deflate before my eyes. With conflicted urgency, she put a warm hand on mine and held onto it.
"Help me out here," I said, rubbing her soft knuckles with my thumb.
"Sam, don't." She sniffed, exhaling a trembling breath.
"A clue, anything."
"Here's the thing," still holding my hand, she turned around to face me. For the first time that day, she looked me in the eye. Then held both of my hands. "You've been in prison almost three years."
"This much I know."
"You know how hard I've been fighting for you."
"Yes."
"Part of me never thought you'd get out. That was my safety net."
"Safety net? For what?"
"Just let me finish, okay?" She removed her glasses, wiped the corner of her eyes. "I figured it would be okay. I mean, nothing could possibly happen, right? Stupid, I know, but I just allowed myself. And over time, before I realized it—"
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