Confession (21 page)

Faith nodded and typed something else into the computer. “Perry Smith would be in his eighties today. But that's irrelevant.” She slammed the laptop closed. “Because he was executed by the state of Kansas in 1965.”

 

TWENTY-­FIVE

Thursday, August 15, 4:00
P.M.

T
hey'd be back home in Santa Fe by dark. Luke gunned the engine of his Spitfire and cast a sideways glance at Faith, riding shotgun. He wished Jeremy had waited until morning to come by the Starlight Motel. Luke had been picturing waking up with Faith in his arms since the first moment he saw her at his family's gallery. But now that they'd concluded their business in Amarillo, there was little excuse to stay the night.

A heaviness in his gut set in. Not only was he not going to wake up next to the woman of his dreams, but what had looked like a promising lead on the Santa Fe Saint had turned out to be a work of fiction. Quite literally. It seemed Jeremy Jacobs had lifted his entire description of the mysterious man last seen with Kenneth Stoddard from his high-­school English assignment. Perry the Pervert was quite obviously Perry Smith from the nonfiction novel,
In Cold Blood.
And Perry Smith couldn't be the Santa Fe Saint unless he was setting upon his victims from beyond the grave.

Jeremy had been so believable. Luke's hopes had soared higher than they'd been since his brother's arrest, then, with the click of a mouse, they'd been dashed to an all-­time low.

Thanks, Google.

At least he had Faith all to himself for the ride home. Nothing enhanced intimacy like being trapped together in a small vehicle for hours on end. There's a reason chicks dig road trips.

Faith was currently working her smart phone hard, but at least she wasn't humming. One of the many little things he loved about Faith was that she rarely used her phone. It hardly beeped, buzzed, or played a tune to indicate an incoming call, and she kept her focus on the ­people in the room, not on her electronics. A path he tried to follow himself. As Chica's due date grew near, however, things began to change. The texts between Faith and Tommy had become much more frequent. “Checking on Tommy and Chica?”

“I tried, but no response. Now I'm downloading a book.”

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Faith would rather read on the trip home than talk to him, and he'd really been looking forward to all that small talk. What's your favorite color? How old were you the first time you did it? Beer or champagne? “Anything special?” A nice romance wouldn't be so bad. She could read it aloud, might put her in the mood.

“
In Cold Blood.
” Then, reading the what's-­the-­use look on his face perfectly, she added, “I've got sort of a hunch that Jeremy's not entirely full of hot air. It's been a long time, but I read this book in school, and my gut is telling me we're missing something. I just wish I could remember the story clearly.”

“Maybe I could hypnotize you.”

“Maybe I could read the book.”

“My way's more fun.”

But she was already scrolling down the page. He didn't understand ­people who read on their phones. He preferred the feel of a leather-­bound volume in his hand, the crisp smell of ink on paper. But what the hell, maybe he'd try it someday.

A few miles of silence went by. He cleared his throat. He was tempted to hum. “Wanna read that book aloud? Maybe I might get a hunch, too.”

Her response was a sharp intake of air, as if something was very wrong. He waited, but she said nothing, and time beat on making his own breathing accelerate—­maybe, just maybe something was
right.

Clutching her heart, she said at last. “I need a fast connection . . . fast.”

He tried not to let his excitement show in his voice. His hopes had been dashed too recently. “What's up?”

“Just get me somewhere with wireless . . . and coffee would be good. I think I found something important.” She reached over and squeezed his thigh. “I think I figured out how the Saint has been choosing his victims.”

F
ifteen minutes later, Luke and Faith were crammed side by side into a half booth at Starbucks, laptop blazing. Hard to believe the connection between the victims was so simple, and yet so hard to recognize.
Perry the Pervert
was the key. If only the police had taken Jeremy Jacobs at his word all those years ago, maybe Kenneth Stoddard would've been the Saint's last victim.

“Here.” Faith's low voice rang with urgency. I've created a document with the names and ages of the members of the Clutter family—­Perry Smith's victims. Herb Clutter, age forty-­five, Bonnie Clutter, age forty-­four, Nancy Clutter, age sixteen, and Kenyon Clutter, age fifteen.”

Luke scribbled down the info on a napkin to keep it within easy reach while she navigated to the
Santa Fe Gazette
. “And here are the names and ages of the Saint's known victims: William Carmichael, age forty-­five; Linda Peabody, age forty-­four; Kenneth Stoddard, age fifteen, and Nancy Aberdeen, age sixteen.”

“Not a perfect match,” he said, playing devil's advocate. She was onto something all right, but they were going to need a lot more than the coincidence of a few first names to convince the police.

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “A man calling himself Perry asks Kenny Stoddard for guitar lessons.”

“According to Jeremy.”

She held up her hand. “Let's assume Jeremy's telling the truth. He's got no reason at all to lie anymore. This Perry fellow has a tattoo of a blue tiger on his right biceps and the word
Cookie
tattooed on the left. The guy's short, a muscle-­head with wavy black hair. Either the guy
is
Perry Smith, which is impossible, or the guy's
trying to be
Perry Smith, which most certainly is not . . . impossible I mean.”

“I have to admit the tattoos seal the deal for me. A blue tiger, a short guy named Perry who plays the guitar, could maybe be coincidence, but
Cookie
? Who the hell gets
Cookie
tattooed on his arm?”

Faith hadn't touched her croissant. He eyed it sideways, and she dumped it on his plate.

“
Gracias.
”

“
De nada.
We've only got a 50 percent hit on the victim's first names. We need this airtight, or the cops are gonna think we're spouting bullshit to get your brother off the hook.” She covered her hand with his. “But the thing is we're not spouting bullshit. So all we have to do is put our heads together and solve the puzzle.”

He liked the idea of putting their heads together. He liked the idea of putting their other parts together, too. But he decided to keep that tidbit to himself for now. “Google Nancy Aberdeen. The girl's a real good stand-­in for Nancy Clutter, so let's start with her. What else do we know about her?”

Faith's fingers jumped over the keyboard. A smiling image of poor Nancy Aberdeen popped up—­the same one that'd made national news—­the one of sixteen-­year-­old Nancy wearing a blue ribbon on her chest and displaying her prizewinning cherry pie. Your all-­American girl personified. “That cherry pie is like the cookie tattoo. It cinches the deal almost as well as a DNA match. According to Capote's book, Nancy Clutter was
the
all-­American girl, and get this, on the day she died, she taught a friend how to bake a cherry pie.”

“You're kidding,” he said.

“Don't know for sure that she actually helped a friend bake a cherry pie that day, but that's what Truman Capote wrote in his book. So as far as our Perry wannabe's concerned, that's the model he needs to follow—­assuming he's getting his information about the Clutter murders from
In Cold Blood,
of course.”

“I think that's a safe bet. Okay, so we've got one perfect victim fit. Let's move on.”

“How about Kenny? The Clutter boy was named Kenyon, but I'm calling this a match. Unlikely the Saint could find another Kenyon. Kenny's close enough, and both boys were fifteen, from a rural area. Good students, maybe a little shy.”

He let out a deep breath. It all seemed so perfect until you factored in the others. “But aside from age and the rural connection, the adults don't match. Herb Clutter versus William Carmichael? All the cops need to discount this complicated theory, and it is complicated, darlin', is one logical flaw.”

“Hang on, I want to try pulling up the men's obituaries side by side.” Seconds ticked by, then Faith's eyes widened. “Bingo!”

He nearly choked on a bite of croissant. She passed him her water, and he gulped what was left in the glass. “You can say that again. Full name: Herbert William Clutter. Occupation: farmer. Deacon in the Methodist church. And here's the Saint's victim: William Herbert Carmichael, also a farmer. Also a Methodist. The two men even look alike.”

An electrified look passed between them. He knew it. She knew it.

Dante was not the Saint.

Perry the Pervert was real, and he was deadly. Luke didn't know yet how Linda Peabody matched up well enough to stand in for Bonnie Clutter, but Faith already had the women's obituaries up in side-­by-­side windows. Both were mothers of four children—­three girls and a boy. Both married to farmers. Both Methodists. It was a good fit, but . . .

“This bothers me.” Faith's words echoed his thoughts. “All the other names match in one form or another, but not Bonnie's and Linda's. Why would the Saint veer off course?”

“An evolving MO? A dearth of suitable victims named Bonnie? Bonnie's an old-­fashioned name, and maybe the Saint decided it was more important to match the victims on other characteristics rather than the names.”

“But he made it work with the others, even though he had to resort to
Herb
as a middle name. The Saint seems so organized, and yet this feels sloppy to me.”

“Google Bonnie.” Luke jabbed his napkin.

“I already did.”

“No. Just the name Bonnie. Doesn't Bonnie mean pretty?”

“I don't have to google that. A bonnie lass is a cute girl.”

The words sizzled in the air, charging the space around them with excitement. In unison they said, “
Una chica linda!
”

The Saint couldn't find a forty-­four-­year-­old
Bonnie
with four kids, so he chose a forty-­four-­year-­old
Linda
with four kids. This was New Mexico after all. ­People were facile with Spanish. Linda and Bonnie both meant cute or pretty.

“I don't see how the authorities can fail to act on this. The Saint is targeting individuals who mirror the victims in Capote's book. And he's using a shotgun—­just like Perry Smith and Dick Hickock did. Jeremy Jacobs saw a man calling himself Perry with Kenny Stoddard shortly before he disappeared. This is compelling stuff.”

“The Saint has already killed a stand-­in for every member of the Clutter family who was murdered in cold blood. Does that mean he's finished?”

Faith looked so hopeful, he hated to remind her. “The Saint's not done. If he were, we wouldn't have the butcher.”

“The butcher? Is that a moniker for a famous serial killer or something?”

“No. The latest victim, the one they found with a rosary last week, was just IDed today. Torpedo texted me. The guy owned a butcher shop downtown called Three Little Pigs.”

Faith's face went ashen. Her coffee cup spun onto the floor, and he grabbed the laptop, jumping out of the path of hot liquid.

She stared at the coffee dripping from the table onto the floor. “I didn't know the new victim was a butcher . . .” she whispered. “I-­I can't believe this.” She dropped her face in her hands.

A young girl—­a barista—­stood behind Luke, her mouth agape and a rag in her hand. Luke grabbed the rag and sopped up the coffee mess. The girl just stood there staring. He found a wad of bills in his pocket and closed the barista's palm around it. “Thanks very much,” he looked at her name tag. “
Linda.
” Who knew how much she'd overheard.

“We need a change of scenery.” He tugged Faith to her feet and shoved her out the door.

The minute they were out of Starbucks, she sagged against the brick building. Leaning in, he put his arm against the wall protectively, and also to encourage passersby to keep their distance from the two lovebirds. “What's going on? Why did you react like that when I told you the new victim was a butcher?”

She shook her head. “I-­I don't know. It just reminded me of something a patient told me. I'm not even sure myself what it means. Let me figure this out first. I don't want to violate patient privacy.”

He felt his face heating. He could barely contain the urge to shake her by the shoulders. He'd trust Faith with his life, yet she couldn't trust him with whatever was on her mind, and it clearly had to do with the Saint and a connection to the butcher. Dante was facing extradition to Texas, a state that made full use of the death penalty, and suddenly her lips were sealed? For the first time in weeks, he felt the need to remind her. “You turned my brother in to the police.”

“I can't talk about a patient.”

“
Now
you get your panties in a wad about doctor-­patient privilege? I want to know what's going on.” He pressed his body against hers. The feel of her heart beating against him made him want to protect her, keep her safe from harm, and here he was pushing her. But he couldn't let up, not with his brother's life on the line. He brushed his lips over her ear and growled again. “Tell. Me.”

A man stopped, then took a step toward them. Faith shooed him away with a hand signal. “We're newlyweds,” she said in a shaky voice.

Luke backed away from her.

Once her would-­be rescuer had moved on, she said, “Dante is in jail for crimes he didn't commit precisely because I ignored doctor-­patient confidentiality. I did it for the public good. I'm not saying I made the wrong decision, but I simply cannot go down the path my mind is taking me without more information. Your brother confessed. The man I'm thinking of now did not, and he's very, very fragile.”