Confession (13 page)

 

SIXTEEN

F
aith went to her office bookcase and retrieved her set of TAT cards before returning to her usual seat behind her desk. Since Scourge was apparently skittish where psychological tests were concerned, she took it nice and easy and slowly placed the closed blue box on the desk for him to examine.

Scourge reached out and, with shaky fingers, traced the embossed gold lettering. “
Thematic Apperception Test
for adults.” He crossed and uncrossed his legs. “If this TAT test circumvents my defenses like it's supposed to, you'll see all those shameful secrets you think I'm hiding.”

“Not to worry. I'm only a psychiatrist, buddy, not Kreskin—­and this test is only a tool.” She propped her elbows on her desk. “A tool that may give me insight into your personality, into the way your mind works.”

“You have secrets, too, Dr. Clancy. Shameful ones. I can see them in your eyes.”

Scourge was merely displaying a classic defense mechanism: projection. He was projecting his own guilt onto her. She knew this, and yet her mind immediately turned to Grace. Her face heated. “We all have secrets. We've all done things we feel guilty about.
All of us.
Not just you. Mistakes are part of being human, nothing to be embarrassed about.”

She knew these words by heart because she'd recited them to herself more than once. Hopefully, they wouldn't ring as hollow in Scourge's ears as they did in her own. “We're all human.” Her fingers toyed with the necklace Grace had given her—­one-­half of a heart. The other half had been buried with Grace.

Scourge's gaze bounced to her throat, and she suddenly felt like the mouse to his toying cat.

“You show me your secrets, and I'll show you mine,” he said, his voice a coaxing purr.

Keeping her tone all business, she said, “I'm not the patient, and this is not show-­and-­tell. Either you're in or you're out, but I can't help you if you're not willing to trust me.”

His fingers drummed the box. He shifted in his chair, bent, and looked around on the floor as if he'd dropped something, which he certainly had not as far as she could tell. Finally, he straightened and stilled. “What do I have to do?”

“Inside this box is a set of cards.” She held up her hand to block his protest. “Not inkblots. There are pictures on the cards, mostly of ­people. I show you a picture, and you make up a story about it. Simple and painless and we can stop anytime if anything makes you uncomfortable.”

“But I don't know what story to make up.”

He needed more reassurance. “Any story you want. Anything at all.”

He jerked a nod. “Fine by me, then.”

Infusing her tone with encouragement, she said, “Try to remember, my job is to help you. I'm on your side.”

His lips trembled, and he wiped his mouth.

“Why don't you go grab a water, take a pit stop if you need one?” Faith needed time to select the cards she wanted to use with Scourge, and he shouldn't see them beforehand.

“You're trying to get rid of me.”

“I certainly am.” She smiled at him. “I have to set the test up privately, or the results will be spoiled. Just give me five or ten minutes, if you don't mind.”

He hesitated but then complied with her wishes. While he was out of the room, Faith selected ten cards from the assortment in the box, focusing on the subject matter she thought most likely to bring Scourge's problems to the forefront, all in the safe guise of a make-­believe story. She'd just completed her selection when he returned with two styrofoam cups of water.

“Thanks. How thoughtful of you.” She accepted the water he held out and waited for him to take a seat, make himself comfortable. Which was going to take a while, judging from all the repositioning of legs and folding and unfolding of arms.

Finally, he seemed settled in.

“Ready. Here we go.” She handed him a card, and just having something to hold in his hands helped him relax. He breathed in and out slowly. “That's great. You're using your relaxation techniques without being prompted.” He actually seemed to be learning to cope with his anxiety in a productive way, and that was a very good sign.

“I'm recording.” She turned on a handheld recorder. Later, she'd use the playback to score and analyze the results.

He turned the card upside down, sideways, looked at the back side, flipped it over again. “This is a very strange-­looking picture.”

No argument there. The images on card 13MF were indeed strange—­the kind that stirred the imagination . . . and the psychosexual urges. In residency, they not so jokingly called it the sex card. It depicted a woman lying in bed, nude from the chest up. Beside her, a man stood hanging his head, hiding his eyes with his forearm.

Scourge continued to look at the card, but when he didn't volunteer any more information she prompted him. “I'd like you to make up a story about what you see. It can be any story you like, but it should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Try to make it as dramatic as you can. Oh, and I'll want to know what the characters in the story are thinking and feeling.”

“Sure. But what's going on with the woman in bed. Is she asleep, or is she dead?”

“Up to you. I'm afraid I can't answer any questions about the cards. There's no right or wrong story, only what you choose.”

He was quiet a good five minutes. Faith relaxed into her chair and stretched her legs; rushing him would be counterproductive.

At last, he said, “She's dead.”

Keeping her voice and face neutral, she reminded him, “I need you to tell me a beginning, a middle, and an end. I want to know what the characters are thinking and feeling.”

“Right. Well, that's her son, and he killed her. He's upset, that's why he's hiding his eyes. He's glad she's dead, but he's also sad because now he doesn't have anyone to take care of him. Only he's stupid because his mother never took care of him in the first place. He's already forgotten that's the reason he killed her. Drunks shouldn't have kids.”

“And?”

“And he runs away and makes a new life for himself and lives happily ever after. The end.”

Faith took mental notes only—­she had the recorder to review later. Scourge's response to the first card lacked the typical elements. Most patients saw the man and woman as being near the same age, and while some described the woman lying in the bed as dead, most said she was sleeping. Typical stories contained either overt or subtle sexual elements. Scourge's story held none. The fact that his story was so different meant it was very personal and very significant.

Mother issues.

After presenting Scourge with several more cards, he seemed to relax into the task and get the hang of things. She no longer needed to remind him to tell her what the characters were thinking and feeling or tell a complete story. In response to each story, she offered no judgment or evaluation.

But her heart squeezed a little at Scourge's reactions. While she kept her expressions as neutral as possible, he beamed like a boy who'd just brought home a straight-­A report card to his parents. For Scourge, the mere absence of criticism seemed equal to the highest of praise. If only she could touch his sleeve, tell him
well done,
but that would've contaminated the process.

Each story grew more elaborate than the next, and Scourge was on a quite a roll. But it'd been over an hour, and she still had one more card to show him. Card 2 depicted a family—­a teenage girl holding books in her arms, a man plowing a field in the background, and a pregnant woman standing to the side. Faith leaned forward, eager to learn his reaction to the family card.

“Oh,” he said in a loud voice. He set the card on her desk and jabbed it repeatedly with his index finger. “This is going to be my favorite story.”

Okay. ­People didn't usually get quite that jazzed about the farm family, so maybe she'd been right to select the card. Suppressing a smile, she made no comment.

“So, this girl looks to be around sixteen. Let's call her Nancy.”

First character he'd named. She twisted in her chair.

He looked up, eyes glittering with excitement. “See these books? Nancy's a good student. She's on the honor roll, student council, the whole nine yards. But today she has to hurry with her homework because she's getting ready for a meeting of the 4-­H club.”

It wasn't easy for to hide her surprise. The animated way Scourge recounted his story, the rich details—­giving the characters names and ages—­was highly unusual. She bit her lower lip and focused her eyes on the bookcase. “Mmm hmm.”

“The father's a rich man, he's done very very well for himself with that farm of his, but he's strict and a tough disciplinarian. Nancy's a good girl, though, so he doesn't need to worry about her. She's helpful and kind. Everyone loves her. She's the type of girl who'll go straight to heaven when she dies.”

“Mmm hmm.” Lots of ­people dying today.

Jumping up, he nearly spilled his water on the card but caught it at the last moment. “The mother, let's call her Bonnie, doesn't look happy. She's got four kids, and her husband doesn't pay attention to her anymore. He's too busy with church and running the farm to take notice of his wife. Some days, Bonnie doesn't even bother getting dressed.”

He'd named both the mother and the daughter. Highly unusual. Maybe he'd had an aunt named Bonnie, or a cousin named Nancy. You'd never know he was constructing a family from thin air. He talked as if he knew them well. Perhaps he'd imagined himself in a different, happier family than his own. Perhaps this wasn't the first time he'd thought about Bonnie and Nancy. She checked her watch.

“You want an end?”

She nodded.

“Because they're good ­people, they have nothing to worry about. The end.”

Scourge handed her the card, his face flushed and glowing. This being the final card, there was little risk of her contaminating the process any longer. She decided to venture a question. “What do you mean,
because they're good ­people, they have nothing to worry about
?”

A wide smile on his face, he said, “I enjoyed this, Dr. Clancy. I really did.”

She tried again. “Why doesn't this family need to worry?”

“Because they're going to heaven—­all of them.”

 

SEVENTEEN

Friday, August 9, 5:00
P.M.

F
aith had come to the jail to convince Dante to recant—­if he was in fact innocent—­and she wasn't leaving until she'd accomplished her mission.

“This place robs them of their dignity,” Sergeant Sheila Nesbitt remarked as she gave Faith a thorough pat down. “Try not to let it get to you.” Her low voice had the kind of soothing tone that could quiet a spooked animal. “Losing your dignity is worse than losing your freedom, so I never show my prisoners I notice. Act cool. That's the best way if you can manage it.”

Faith felt a little of her own dignity drain away as the sergeant checked her for contraband. Teddy Torpedo Haynes had appointed Faith as his agent and managed to get her a private visit with Dante at the jail. The pat down was necessary for everyone's safety, and it was no big deal compared to the searches the inmates endured.

“I'll be right outside this door.” Nesbitt, a stately African-­American woman with soft eyes and a hard body, gave Faith a look full of meaning.

“Thanks.” Faith wasn't worried. After all, she'd been alone with Dante on many occasions with no security, and from what she could see, there was simply no way Dante could do her harm under these circumstances. Her gratitude to Sergeant Nesbitt was not so much for the protection she offered as for the kindness toward the prisoners reflected in her words. Prior to this, Faith's image of jailers had been constructed mostly from television shows and B movies. Sergeant Sheila Nesbitt had dramatically altered Faith's image for the better in the less than five minutes they'd spent together.

A loud
clank
sounded as the door latched shut behind Nesbitt. Faith placed a hand on her stomach and took a slow breath. A shiver ran down her spine as she surveyed the visitation room, where a sense of hopelessness gusted out the air-­conditioning vents along with the too-­cold air. The room was all concrete, painted the dirty gray of slush on a highway. Concrete walls. Concrete floors. Even the furniture was poured concrete. Nobody was going to pick up a table or chair and use it as a weapon in this place.

The
click
of her heels echoed through the room as she approached the picnic-­style table in the back. No way Dante didn't hear her coming, but he kept his head down, avoiding the moment when he'd have to meet her eyes. That gave her a chance to compose herself and blank her expression. Or as Nesbitt would put it, to regain her cool. She allowed herself one and only one glance at the chain that wrapped Dante's midsection and looped through a metal ring bolted into the floor. As she sat down at the table across from him, she kept her head up, her back straight.

Dante was dressed in a gray jumpsuit that matched the color of the walls, floor, and furniture. His shackled hands rested on the tabletop, and they, too, were chained to a ring, this one bolted into the concrete bench.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Faith said in as casual a tone as she could summon while her heart was withering in her chest. This place did indeed rob a person of his dignity.

“You're wasting your time, Dr. Clancy.” Dante whipped his head up, raised his hands, and literally rattled his chains.

“I've got plenty of time, and I don't consider you a waste.”

His eyes had grown dimmer, or maybe it was just all the gray that made them look so flat. Dark bags puffed out the area under his lids, and his skin drooped off his carved cheekbones. He must be refusing food altogether to lose noticeable weight in such a short time. Her chest grew heavy, and a lump formed in her throat. Beneath the table, her feet twisted. But she hadn't come here to pity him. She'd come to empower him, to make him understand he could change his circumstance by telling the truth.

Keeping her tone all business, she asked, “Do you mind if I record our conversation?” Torpedo needed to know everything Dante said, verbatim.

“Suit yourself.” Dante's forehead wrinkled. “I don't mind talking to you. But don't think you can convince me to withdraw my confession. I'm guilty as charged.”

Ah, so he knew exactly why she'd come. If this were a therapy session, she'd have time to help him reach a good decision on his own, slowly. But this wasn't a therapy session, and there was simply no time to coddle him. It was entirely possible this was the only private interview she'd be allowed. “Then why did you agree to let Mr. Haynes enter a not-­guilty plea for you at the arraignment?”

“Mr. Haynes?”

The startled look that passed over Dante's face reminded Faith of a child awakening from a bad dream.

“Your attorney, Teddy Haynes.”

He jerked his hands, and his chains clanked together. “He's not my attorney. I never agreed to anything.”

“Yes, Dante, you did. You told your brother you wanted a lawyer, and Luke hired Teddy Haynes.” Hopefully, the facts would pull him back to reality.

His eyes rolled back in his head. “Right. Teddy Haynes. Luke got me a lawyer.” He pushed his body as close to her as he was able. “You want to help me, don't you, Dr. Clancy?”

Automatically, she reached out her hand to touch his arm, and when she did the cold metal of his shackles brushed her fingers, jolting her. “Yes. That's why I'm here. I want to help.”

“Then tell my brother to back off.” His lips pulled at the corners, and he bared his teeth at her. He was putting on a show to scare her again.

She pulled her hand away. This time she wouldn't be manipulated. “I'm afraid I can't do that, and even if I tried, Luke would never walk away from you, Dante. He cares about you too much.”

“It's all an act. He doesn't give a damn about me. He just doesn't want the Jericho name dragged through the dirt.”

“I don't believe that, and besides, he's all the family you've got.” She gave him a pointed look. “You should give him a chance.”

“Like you gave your family a chance?” Again with the manipulation.

She forced herself not to drop her eyes, but inwardly she cringed. Dante knew things about her—­about her family. He'd told her so on the day he confessed. Her fingers went to her throat, but the necklace Grace had given her wasn't there. No jewelry allowed. “I didn't come here to talk about me. Maybe this is a waste of my time after all.” She came to her feet—­time to get tough, for both their sakes.

“Wait. Don't be mad.” A muscle beneath his eye started to twitch.

“Why shouldn't I be mad?” She might be using her anger strategically, but she wasn't faking it. It pissed her off that he'd invaded her privacy—­and more importantly that he'd invaded the privacy of ­people she loved.

“I don't want you to go.” His eyes turned glossy. He wasn't faking either.

She hesitated, pretending to debate whether to stay or go. She turned her head from side to side before looking back at Dante. “Then answer this question. If you're guilty as charged, why did you enter a not-­guilty plea?”

His feet tip-­tapped on the concrete floor. “I had to. If I had pleaded guilty, there wouldn't have been a reason to try me. I want to go to trial. I want my day in court.”

“I don't understand.”

“I want a jury to convict me, and I want a judge to confirm my guilt.” The way his voice cracked was heartbreakingly earnest.

Her hands formed tight balls. Oh God. She could actually see some sort of sick logic at work here. “Just to be clear. You want a judge and jury to publicly declare you a guilty man. Have I got that right?”

“Exactly.” He breathed a sigh, and his shoulders lowered.

“But Mr. Haynes says that there's nothing in your confession beyond the information that was made public through newspaper accounts. Mr. Haynes thinks you might not have killed those ­people at all.”

“If I did kill them, I deserve to be locked up for the rest of my life.”

“
If
you killed them?”

“I killed them. I know I did. I told you, the police were closing in on me. They wouldn't be after me if I hadn't done something very, very bad.”

Classic paranoia. And this particular delusion of guilt was going to buy him a lethal injection if she didn't find a way to get through to him. “Dante, do you or don't you actually remember committing any of the murders to which you've confessed?”

“No.”

No!

“In your statement, you said you blew Nancy Aberdeen's head off with a shotgun and then put a rosary in her hand. Did you do those things?” She firmed her voice, letting him know she'd be angry if he lied to her. It was clear he valued her approval, and if the only way to save his life was to withdraw that approval, she wouldn't hesitate.

“No.”

“What about William Carmichael, and Linda Peabody and Ken Stoddard. Did you have anything to do with any of their deaths?”

“No.”

“Then why, Dante, why would you say you did?”

“Because I'm a guilty man. I killed my mother.”

She slapped her palm on the table, and the concrete bit back. “Your mother died in a car accident nearly twenty years ago.”

“Because of me!”

“Stop being childish. You weren't even in the car.” She turned up the heat. Let him hear how ludicrous his assertion was. “You were eight years old, whad'ya do, cut the brakes?”

“She had too much to drink. She argued with my father . . . about me. She wished I was never born. That's what she said.”

He was sobbing now.

Steeling her heart against his cries, she turned her back and took a step toward the door.

“Don't go. Please don't go,” he gasped.

“I'm done here.” Her throat closed, the cruel words nearly choking her, but she had no choice—­not if she wanted to save an innocent man from going to prison . . . or worse.

“What do you want from me? Please don't go. Just tell me what you want.”

Whirling to face him, she said, “I want you to agree to meet with Teddy Haynes, and I want you to tell him the truth.”

He shook his head. “I can't. I need to be punished. And I have nowhere to go. No one to care if I live out the rest of my days in prison.”

“Dante. Listen to me very carefully. I'm done playing games with you. You think you're being honorable, but you're not. Your brother cares about you, and you're hurting him by lying to the police. You're hurting a lot of other ­people, too.” She had his attention so she kept going. “The minute you confessed, the police stopped looking for the Saint. So if the real Saint kills again while the police are wasting their time with you, you really will be guilty of murder.” She took a backward step toward the door.

“I'll talk to my attorney. I swear. Just promise you'll come to see me again.”

“After you keep your end of the bargain.”

His head bobbed excitedly. “Yes. Yes. I promise.”

She sought his gaze and held it. “And there's one other thing, Dante. Texas wants to extradite you for the Saint's crime there. And unlike New Mexico, Texas has a death penalty. So when Teddy Haynes comes by to see you, you better listen to what he says. You better start telling the truth—­on the record—­because if you don't, I promise you, you won't see me again.”