Confession (16 page)

This wasn't Hugo's fault. The poor man had only done as he'd asked him to do. This wasn't Scourge's fault either. Dr. Clancy should've cured him faster. He was getting better in spite of her, though, and it would soon be time for her to pay.

 

TWENTY-­ONE

Wednesday, August 14, 9:00
A.M.

A
s Luke ambled across the diner, each step carefully measured, his expression tightly controlled, he matched Detective Johnson's stare. Even as Luke relaxed into the booth tucked into a far corner of the kitschy café, he didn't drop his gaze.

Nor did Johnson.

Out of his peripheral vision, Luke noticed a waitress approach. Eyes still locked on Johnson, he turned up the empty cup in front of him, and the waitress filled it with a brew so acidic he could smell the bite. Just the kind of java he liked, man-­up black.

“I'll give you fellows some more time,” she said, wisely backing away from the booth. When she spun and bolted for the counter, Luke caught the flip of her pink-­skirted uniform out of the corner of his eye.

“We do this now or wait for Torpedo?” Johnson finally dropped his gaze, breaking the face-­off, picked up his knife and fork, and moved them from the napkin onto the tabletop.

“Is it true?”

Johnson's mouth pulled to the side. “What?”

He kept his voice low and steady. “They found another body.”

“Can't confirm or deny.” Johnson dumped a load of cream into his coffee, stirred and took a sip. He tapped a menu on the table. “You know what you want already?”

Luke grabbed the menu. Opened it. Closed it. Nodded. “I got a connection at the
Gazette.
”

“I just bet you do. Jerichos got connections everywhere.” The detective's voice sounded like he'd just swallowed a mouthful of Tabasco.

Ignoring the jab, Luke continued, “I got a connection at the
Gazette
who says they're holding the story until the DA gives them the go-­ahead. Says a male body was found near Camel Rock Monument in mint condition.”

“How do you figure a corpse to be in mint condition?”

“No decomposition. My connection says it's a fresh kill—­­couple of days old at most.”

“Can't confirm or deny.”

“My connection says the victim had a rosary clasped in his fist, same as the others.”

“Others? Oh, you mean like the Saint's victims. Hey, maybe you should get your ears washed. Like I said twice already, I can't confirm or deny.”

“Like hell you can't.” Luke leaned forward, slammed down the menu. Coffee sloshed from his cup into the saucer. “There's a press conference scheduled for this afternoon.”

“And you can get your details then along with the common folk.”

Luke was debating whether or not to knock that fat chip off Johnson's shoulder when the door to the café swung open, and Teddy Torpedo Haynes stalked inside and made a beeline for their booth. Crowding Johnson over, the attorney sat down too close and spit into the man's coffee.

The detective's face turned rage red. “How 'bout I book you for assault, counselor?”

Torpedo shrugged. “Assault with a deadly loogie? Knock yourself out.”

Johnson sputtered, extended a fist, then drew it back.

Yeah, Torpedo was going to be a big help in winning Johnson over to their side. Luke rubbed the knot out of his forehead. He didn't know which man was the more unpleasant breakfast companion. No. He did, and it wasn't Johnson. Compared to Torpedo, Johnson was a regular Miss Congeniality. “Look, I'd love to sit here and watch you gentleman measure your dicks all day, but this is a serious matter.”

Torpedo hocked another gem into the detective's coffee.

“Give it a rest, will you?” Luke pointed a finger at the phlegmatic attorney. “Save your antics for the courtroom.” Then he jerked his chin at Johnson. “Torpedo's sorry, and it won't happen again.”

Torpedo made an aw-­shucks face.

Luke arched a brow. “For real, Haynes. This is no game. My brother's life is at stake here, and I'm sure the good detective is doing the best he can to get to the truth. Aren't you, Johnson?”

Johnson crossed his arms high on his chest and looked from Luke to Haynes and back to Luke again. “You can't
good cop bad cop
a cop. Let's cut the crap, shall we?”

“Absolutely. But the fact is, my brother's been charged with a string of murders whose only common denominator is a rosary left on the victims' bodies.”

Johnson pushed his ruined coffee aside. “And Dante Jericho's confession. That ties the victims together, wouldn't ya say?”

Luke decided to concede the point because you can't say you're after the truth and then ignore whatever parts don't suit you. “Okay, the rosaries
and
the confession of a man who's clearly guilt-­ridden and mentally fragile.”

“Big of you to admit that.” Johnson's tone might've been sarcastic, but he stopped fiddling with his silverware and sat forward attentively, allowing Luke to finish.

“Apart from the rosaries and a questionable confession no one can say what ties these victims together. And perhaps more importantly, there's no physical evidence whatsoever to link my brother to the crimes. A victim found with a rosary—­killed while Dante remains in custody—­would obviously be important to my brother's defense, if such a victim in fact exists. So yes, we are entitled to the information according to the law, which I believe you are sworn to uphold. Now, I can go through channels and get the information, or you can stop fucking around and just tell us what's going on.” He turned his palms up. “Because quite frankly, Detective, Torpedo's manners suck. I'd hate it if he spouted off unfairly to the press. I'd hate it even more if the good ­people of Santa Fe garnered the false impression that the police in general, and you in particular, are uncooperative and endangering the welfare of the community by refusing to follow up new leads on a serial killer.”

“Nobody's being uncooperative.” Johnson slapped the table with his palm, and his lower body jerked.

“Now that's assault.” Torpedo interjected. “You kicked me on purpose.”

Johnson kept his eyes on Luke. “I'll tell you what I know, but it's nothing gonna do your brother any good.”

Luke forced himself to breathe and refrained from saying he and Torpedo would be the judge of that. He didn't want to give Johnson a reason not to trust him. He wanted to know what was going on, and he wanted to know now.

Johnson moved his silverware, piece by piece back onto the napkin and off again. Scratched his day-­old whiskers. “You say you're after truth. Well, so am I. So in a way, you and I got something in common, though it pains me to say I'm anything like an overprivileged dick like you.”

“And it pains me to think I'm anything like an arrogant prick like you, so I guess we do have stuff in common.” Luke showed him his teeth.

Johnson hunched his shoulders. “We got a fresh body. We got a rosary. But it's not the Saint.”

“You think it's a copycat?” Luke asked.

Torpedo smirked. “Here comes the old copycat excuse. These coppers never want to admit when they screw up and arrest an innocent man for murder.”

Johnson bolted to his feet. “You fellows think you know what I'm about. You think I'd railroad Dante Jericho just to make a name for myself, get my fifteen minutes of fame.”

“I'd say that's a fair assessment.” Torpedo shrugged.

Then, apparently realizing Torpedo had him trapped in the booth, Johnson sat back down. “Well, you can both go to hell. Ever heard of the words protect and serve? Maybe those words sound corny to a slimeball lawyer like you. Or a rich asshole like you who never had to work a day in his life.” He favored Luke with a poisonous look.

“I may be an asshole, but I do work,” Luke didn't let his voice rise. He wasn't being defensive, just stating the facts.

“Fine, you work. But you never
had
to work. Not the same thing at all.”

“Hey. Over here. Remember me?” Torpedo stuck his thumbs on his temples and wiggled his fingers. “I'm the slimeball lawyer who's never lost a murder case.”

“Which proves my point.” Johnson said through gritted teeth. “No way each and every one of your clients was innocent. Statistically speaking, that's impossible, and that means you've put
killers
back on the streets—­the streets I'm trying to make safe for law-­abiding citizens. So question anything you want, but don't question my motives. Ain't a goddamn thing wrong with my motives, and they got nothing to do with fifteen fucking minutes of fame.”

The temperature of Luke's blood was rising in direct proportion to the amount of bickering between Torpedo and Johnson. Time to take things down a notch. “Okay. Nobody's saying you're a bad cop.”

“Your mouthpiece just said exactly that.”

Again, Torpedo nodded.

Johnson straightened his spine and drew his shoulders back. “And then you practically ordered him to mouth off to the press with that bad-­manners comment.”

“I'll make sure Torpedo doesn't impugn your reputation. You have my word on it.” Luke narrowed his eyes at his brother's attorney and looked back at the detective. “Now, if you'd care to explain why you think this new victim is the work of a copycat, I'm all ears.”

“I wouldn't even go so far as to call it a copycat. The MOs are too different. Sure, the rosary and hog-­tying is an obvious homage to the Saint, but nothing else fits.”

“Hog-­tied, too?” Luke shuddered at the image that brought to mind.

“Yeah. Sick, like the Saint. But each and every one of the prior victims had his or her skull blown apart with a shotgun. And the bodies were found still covered in blood. But not this poor fellow.”

“You made an ID?”

“We're waiting for dental records. The unsub . . . who is definitely
not
the Saint, strangled his victim, then he scrubbed the body clean. If there was so much as a drop of blood on the man's body, it's gone now, along with his fingernails—­they were trimmed down to the nubs. The good news is we found trace this time.”

“Trace?”

“Yeah, nylon fibers. Guys at the crime lab think they're from a toilet scrubber. No DNA, but its better than nothing.”

“Just to be clear . . . there
was
a rosary.”

Johnson raked a hand through his hair. “Yes.”

“Then how can you discount that so early on? How can you be sure this isn't another one of the Saint's victims?”

“Because the Saint is in custody. I'm sorry for you, Luke, and that's not horseshit.” Johnson's expression softened by a hair. “I know the family of a perpetrator hurts almost as much as the family of a victim. I want you to understand, I don't lump you into the same category as your murdering brother. But I cannot make this new vic as one of the Saint's. The Saint's kills were too precise.”

“You call a shotgun blast to the head precise?”

“I call a murder precise when it happens the same way every time. The Saint is a cold-­blooded methodical monster who's killing his victims in the bloodiest way possible. I
will
catch the son of a bitch who strangled this new guy, but no way in hell is he turning out to be the Santa Fe Saint. No way in hell this new corpse gets your brother off the hook.”

Luke pressed his palms to the sides of his head. “I can't dismiss the rosary connection so easily. It's too powerful a message. I think it's the Saint's way of taking back credit for the murders. He's letting the world know the glory belongs to him. Same thing with the media texts he sent to Faith Clancy. Those pictures—­”

“Those pictures could've been sent to her by anyone with an ax to grind.”

“Who'd have an ax to grind with Faith?”

“Anyone who thinks she's coming down on the wrong side of the fence where your brother's concerned. Her face has been plastered all over the local news as the doctor who was treating a heinous serial killer. It's not easy to get crime-­scene photos, but it can be done.” He shook his head. “Off the record, the DA thinks
you
sent the photos to make it look like the Saint is still out there. Thinks you're trying to draw heat away from your brother.”

Luke rose on his haunches. “You son of a bitch. You believe I'd threaten a kid and a dog and terrify an innocent woman?”

“So now Dr. Clancy's innocent? A few weeks ago you thought she was a bitch for turning your brother in.” Johnson let out a breath. “But for what it's worth, no. I think the DA's wrong about you, Luke. I'm a pretty good judge of character, and while I may not like you, I don't see you as the type to resort to terrorist tactics. My guess is the individual who sent those photos to Dr. Clancy is some pissed-­off vigilante. The same type as the guy who tossed a rock at your limo.” Johnson looked past Luke. “And by the way, the extra detail patrolling Clancy's block is history. With no direct threat to her safety or to the little boy's, the captain decided to reallocate those resources.”

Luke came to his feet, gestured at Haynes. “I want twenty-­four/seven surveillance on Dr. Clancy and Tommy.”

“I got it. I got it,” Torpedo sputtered at Luke, then put his hand on Johnson's shoulder. “Now then, Detective, I've been meaning to ask you. What about that other matter?”

Johnson brushed Torpedo's hand aside. “What other matter?”

“Maybe you thought we wouldn't find the report buried in all that crap the DA's Office sent over.” Torpedo brought out a
gotcha
smile. “I'm talking about a goddamn eyewitness.”

Wednesday, August 14, 3:30
P.M.

H
ere Luke was again, proverbial hat in hand, when a phone call would've sufficed. But how could he regret his decision to come to Faith's office when seeing her in the flesh made his blood pound and his heart soar? Pounding blood might be common enough, but a soaring heart was hardly a small thing, and especially under circumstances like these, shouldn't be taken for granted.