21st Birthday

by Patterson, James

  Lucas got up and grabbed the bars of the cage with his cuffed hands.

  “Guard! Guard!”

  Still holding the bars, he turned to me, and said, “It wasn’t me. I don’t care what you believe. I was found guilty. I’m going to be sentenced in a week or so. I’ll be put in protective housing for the next fifty years. At this point, I don’t care what happens to me. I didn’t kill anyone.”

  The guard arrived.

  “Take me back to my cell.”

  Lucas Burke didn’t say good-bye. He just walked out of the cage between the guards, the shackles around his ankles clanking as he rounded the bend.

  I cleaned up the coffee remnants and tried to get a grip on my own feelings. I hadn’t liked Lucas Burke, and I’d believed I had good reason not to. But I’d been haunted by questions since I’d come into contact with his father.

  I’d had low expectations that he would confess to killing his wife and child, the girl he said he loved, but after meeting with him alone, hearing his voice, feeling his depression at losing everyone, I was surer than ever that he hadn’t done it.

  True to Berney’s word, the FBI had made known its claim on the Evan Burke case. DA Masci was fully up to speed on the names of his family members both alive and dead, and that Burke had been on the agency’s most wanted list. Which was why Burke had changed his name, his address, and his face. But he couldn’t change the charges now stacked against him.

  CHAPTER 114

  RANDALL LANNING HAD CALLED Joseph Masci and told him that his client, Evan Burke, wanted to meet with him.

  Lanning had expected a flat “I’ll see him in court,” but instead Masci said, “What does he want? I have a half hour free at three to hear from your client, who claims to be an unindicted serial psycho.”

  “He says he has something you’re going to like, and you know, Joe, he wants to make a deal.”

  Lanning had conveyed the meeting time back to his client, who was still in the hospital. He added, “See if someone will give you a shave and a haircut.”

  “You ask them. I’m lucky to get a bedpan.”

  Lanning continued.

  “I repeat, Evan. Negotiating with Joseph Masci is not a good idea. He’s like a copperhead snake. He’s venomous. And he’s quick. If you insist on trying your luck, don’t pop off. Think. Then, speak.”

  At three, Joe Masci was in his office when Randall Lanning trundled Evan Burke in.

  Masci’s assistant made everyone comfortable, and asked the boss, “Hold your calls?”

  “I’ll take emergency calls, but you decide, George. We won’t be long.”

  Masci wasn’t big, but he was muscular. He shook Evan Burke’s left hand, gave it a good squeeze.

  “I have ten minutes,” he said, “and they’re all yours. How can I help you?”

  Burke said, “Thanks for your time. I don’t know what you know about me, Mr. Masci. I’m a great man, an important man, and there’s never been a killer on my scale. I kid you not. Hypothetically, I’m willing to do something that pains me. To admit that I killed Lucas’s wife and child and that schoolgirl.”

  DA Masci was fully up to speed on Evan Burke’s claim that he was an unindicted serial psycho. Masci knew the names of Burke’s family members, both alive and dead, and that he had been on the FBI’s most wanted list. Which was why Burke had changed his name, his address, and his face.

  It was because of Evan Burke that Masci had spent that morning on the phone with a highly-placed FBI special agent, J. Edward Bernstein, aka Berney, who said he’d be happy to take Evan Burke off the D.A.’s hands.

  “And why, exactly, would you implicate yourself in a triple homicide?” Masci asked Burke now.

  “I’d do it to save my son, my innocent son, Lucas, whom I hate.”

  Lanning started scribbling frantically on his legal pad as Burke continued to speak. This was the first he was hearing of his client’s conflicting objectives.

  “And that’s barely the beginning. I’d confess to killing the girl at the Eagle as well as over a hundred murders in three states including Nevada with proof of death.

  “I’d ask for a few comforts in exchange.”

  “Hypothetically, what comforts?”

  “The death penalty is off the table. I get a private cell with TV and access to books and videos. Visitation rights for select people. Conjugal rights and a cell phone for good behavior.”

  “Chocolates on your pillow?”

  Burke grinned. “Nah. But thanks for the offer.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A time of day when the bathroom and shower are all mine.”

  Masci leaned back in his chair and gazed over Burke’s head.

  “And you would provide written proof of your kills?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not interested,” said Masci.

  “What?” Burke said. “I said a hundred bodies plus the three in San Francisco. I’ll give you those three now to show good faith.”

  “You killed your grandchild, daughter-in-law, and your son’s girlfriend?”

  “Yes. Yes. I’ll say all of that. How and when and where now, and a hundred more I’ll hold in reserve.”

  Lanning said loudly, “Evan, stop talking. Stop.”

  Masci took out a sheet of letterhead and wrote for a moment. Then handed it to Burke.

  “Please read that out loud.”

  “I, Evan Edward Burke, do swear in the presence of my attorney and Joseph Masci, DA of Las Vegas County in the state of Nevada, and hereby confess to killing Tara Burke, Lorrie Burke, and Melissa Fogarty. My son, Lucas Burke, is innocent of these crimes. And at the bottom, Signed and Witnessed.”

  Masci pressed a button on his desk and his assistant came in. Randall Lanning squeezed and shook Burke’s bad shoulder to make sure he was getting his attention.

  “Yowwww.”

  Lanning turned his back to Masci and said, “Evan, no. I said, do not do this.”

  Evan shook off his lawyer and said in a whisper, “I know what I’m doing.”

  Randall Lanning said, not whispering, “You don’t want to sign that without a guarantee that you will not get the death penalty. I can draw it up, right on that paper —”

  Burke said, “I said, ‘In good faith.’ I’m trusting DA Masci, and I’ll give up the info about recent San Francisco murders —”

  Masci said, “George, please bring this over to Mr. Burke and witness his signature. Then, have the tape of this meeting transcribed. Thank you.”

  When the signed document was back in his hand, Masci said, “Mr. Burke, I’ll turn your confession over to the San Francisco DA and maybe he’ll give your son a break. As I said a moment ago, I’m not interested in making any kind of deal with you. I like our case against you. Keep your secrets. We can only kill you once. Thanks for coming.”

  He stood, walked toward the open door, said, “Morris, I’ll see you in court. I can hardly wait.”

  And then Joe Masci left the building.

  As Randall Lanning wheeled his client out of the room, Burke said, “I think he’s going to talk to Parisi. You heard him. But I have insurance in the form of a letter in my hospital room. It’s for you to give to Cindy Thomas.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Head crime reporter and she’s up to speed on the whole deal. This is urgent, Randy. Do not open it. Send it by courier to Cindy Thomas so she gets it before I leave the hospital.”

  Lanning agreed, then added, “That’s the last thing I’m doing for you, Evan. Find yourself another lawyer.”

  CHAPTER 115

  RICH CONKLIN AND I went to MacBain’s to have a quick lunch, and as luck would have it, we found a spot two tables away from the jukebox.

  There was just enough background doo-wop to camouflage what we were saying, but we could still hear each other. Conklin told me that the little boy hostage had been saved, turned over to Child Protective Services, and that his father had been arrested.

  “Dirtbag
starved the little kid, beat him, said that when he learned to behave he was going to send him to summer camp. When a neighbor called the cops, he put a .38 to little Duane’s head.”

  “Did you get in a punch?”

  “If only.”

  Brady came through the doorway, looked around, saw me and Conklin. He came over and pulled up a stool.

  “Hi, boss,” said Conklin. “The kid is okay.”

  “Good work. Burke is dead.”

  I said “What? Which one?”

  “Ours. Lucas.”

  “Brady, that can’t be true. I had coffee with him two hours ago.”

  “That’ll mess with your mind for a while, Boxer. Tell me about that.”

  Brady lifted his hand to call Sydney over to the table. “I don’t know what to order. I’m not even hungry. Syd, I need something to fill my belly when it’s upset.”

  “Milkshake,” suggested Conklin.

  “I’m lactose intolerant. What kind of soup do you have?”

  While Syd and Brady talked about soup, I put my bacon and cheese sandwich aside. A few minutes ago, I’d been dreaming of it.

  Conklin was still working on his fries, but it was half-hearted and he gave it up. When Syd asked if we were finished, we said yes and she took the plates, left the beer.

  I said, “Brady, what the hell happened to Burke?”

  “His attorney.”

  “Newt Gardner killed him?”

  “Sorry, I’m still trying to get my arms around it. Gardner bought him a jacket and tie for court. According to Sergeant Waters, he was fine after you left, and they took their eyes off him for a half second. He’d hid the tie under his jumpsuit. Made a slipknot — this is us putting it together after the fact. He gets into the top tier of his bed. Closes his eyes, right? When no one is around, he knots the free end of the tie to the bed frame and drops the fuck over.”

  I said, “I can’t — he broke his neck?”

  Brady nodded. “Body’s with Claire by now. She’ll let us know for sure if it was suicide.”

  I was shaking my head, going over my conversation with Burke.

  Brady said, “What made you go up to see him?”

  “Boss, I was looking for resolution.”

  “What did he say?” Rich asked.

  “He said he didn’t do it. He wasn’t trying to convince me. He was dead inside.”

  Brady said, “Boxer. The guy was depressed and for very good reason, none of it having anything to do with you.”

  “He asked why I’d only shot Evan in the arm.”

  “Rich,” Brady said, reaching into his jacket. “Why I’m here. This just came for Cindy with a rush on it.”

  Syd came back with a bowl of chicken noodle soup for Brady, and he handed Conklin the envelope marked “Rush. Urgent.”

  Conklin looked at the envelope, picked up his phone, tapped a contact.

  “Cin? It’s me. This will take two seconds. Can you meet us at MacBain’s? Me, Brady, Lindsay. Yeah. Love you, too.”

  He disconnected the line.

  “She’s ten minutes out. On the way.”

  I said, “I’ll bet she makes it in eight.”

  Conklin said, “I don’t like this. What does Evan Burke want with Cindy?”

  CHAPTER 116

  WHEN CINDY ARRIVED at MacBain’s, Syd set us up at a larger table away from the jukebox.

  Cindy accepted the envelope from Brady, but barely looked at it.

  “What’s going on?”

  Brady said, “Cindy, that’s from Evan Burke. Apparently, he’s a fan. And I have some news, off the record.”

  She said, “Can we please drop the cross-my-heart crap and just tell me. There are enough law enforcement out front of the Hall that someone will leak.”

  Brady said, “Lucas Burke took his life. End of sentence.”

  “He’s dead? You’re saying that Luke is dead?”

  Brady said, “I do believe this is the first time I scooped you. Am I right?”

  Cindy, open-mouthed, nodded.

  “His body is at the ME’s office. Maybe you can get something out of Claire. Okay. I have to go back, see Clapper. Try to put out some fires.”

  Brady paid for his soup.

  “Cindy. According to Burke’s lawyer, Evan wants to meet with you. He’s at Sunrise Med in Vegas, maybe still in the ICU. Boxer and Conklin can go with you. As your friend, I do not want you to see this dude alone.”

  And then Brady was gone.

  Cindy said, “I can’t believe Lucas is dead. I mean I’ve been watching him for months. I hoped to interview him. I turn my back and he kills himself?”

  I said, “I saw him this morning, Cindy. He was depressed, but he’s been depressed since the day I met him.”

  “I gotta write the end of his story.” Cindy stuffed the unopened letter into her bag. “I’ll be at the ME’s office.”

  “Hang on, Cindy,” Rich said. “Read the letter.”

  “I’m gonna have a panic attack.”

  “Hon. Read the letter with your buddy and your lover right here. Then go see Claire.”

  “Fine.”

  Cindy picked up a bread knife and opened the envelope. She read, “Att: Cindy Thomas.” She looked up and said, “This was written on copy paper with a felt-tip pen, dated today.

  She skimmed the letter, sipped some water. Said, “What the hell is this? I’ve never met Evan Burke.”

  I said, “Is that a key taped beneath his signature?”

  “Yes. So here’s what he says, and I quote: ‘I’m a master killer and in over twenty years, this is the first time I’ve been caught. That was half due to frustration, and half due to, I’m tired of doing all this work and getting zero credit. That, Cindy, is where you come in.’ Then, he says, ‘Keep this key. If you want a story with headlines from here to eternity, pay me a visit at Sunrise Medical Center, Las Vegas. ICU. You look good in baby blue.’”

  Rich said, “Cindy. He’s a subhuman liar.”

  “I’ll call him up,” she said. “Take it from there.”

  She kissed me on the cheek, Conklin on the mouth, grabbed her bags, and split.

  “The boss is right that we should go with her,” I said.

  I signaled to Sydney.

  “You know, Rich, Evan claimed to me that he’d been sleeping with Tara for years. That Lorrie was his child.”

  “What? That’s crazy. Is that true? Did you believe him?”

  “I didn’t believe a damned thing he said, but he got to me. What if some of that is true? Now, I’m having a sick feeling that he is going to confess to killing Lorrie, Tara, and Misty. And that would mean … Oh, my God.”

  “If true, that means Luke was wrongly convicted. That he killed himself because his father trapped him and there was no way out.”

  CHAPTER 117

  THE ICU DOCTOR’S name tag read “R. Warren, M.D.”

  He was grizzled, harried, and gruff, telling Cindy that his patient was adamant about seeing her and he was going to permit this because he didn’t want Evan Burke to stroke out.

  Dr. Warren went on.

  “You’re not a relative. You’re not even a friend. But this patient is restricted in unusual ways, and if spending five minutes with you makes him feel better, I just have to allow it.”

  Cindy said, “Five minutes? I just flew here from San Francisco.”

  “I might be talked into six, but that’s it.”

  “Okay. Okay, doctor. Thank you.”

  She could see Evan Burke in the hospital bed, cuffed to the rails, IV dripping fluids into his arm, a nurse changing his bandages.

  The nurse tapped his hand and Burke opened his eyes and turned his head. Cindy felt a shock, like she’d been struck by lightning. She mouthed “Cindy” and pointed to herself.

  Burke held up a finger to indicate one minute. When the fresh bandage was in place and the nurse had refastened his robe, she stepped outside and said, “He’s been waiting for you for two days.”

  “A
re those handcuffs secure?”

  “Yes, and those two policemen over there will be watching you. Don’t sit close enough to him for him to … I’m not sure.”

  “Grab me, I guess.”

  “Just be careful, dear. I’ll tap on the glass when your time is up.”

  The nurse exited and Cindy went in, took the chair, and sat back, out of reach.

  “Mr. Burke. How are you feeling?”

  “We don’t have time for chitchat.”

  She said, “Would you mind if I record our conversation? That will save time.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Cindy took out her phone, tapped the mic app, and held it in her lap.

  “There’s a lot to say, so I’m going to talk fast.”

  Cindy nodded.

  “I’ve followed your coverage of this recent activity in San Francisco — Kathleen’s hysteria, Luke’s running away, Tara’s car — all of it, and without going overboard. You’re going to be famous one day.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I’m going to help you. Or else I’m just messing with you. I’m capable of both.”

  Cindy wondered if he was for real or completely insane. Was he just mouthing off? Or was he giving her the story of her dreams? Could this even work? Whatever kind of spotlight Burke wanted, the Chronicle wasn’t going to go for it, but before she made the decision for Tyler and the board, she could play along.

  “What is it you want to tell me?”

  “I’m one of the greatest serial killers of this century and no one knows it.”

  Determined to keep him talking, Cindy tried not to show any emotion. Not to move her chair back. Not to even comment.

  Burke said, “Try to imagine all of the words you’ve written in your career, but instead of them going out into the world, you’ve kept them all to yourself. Where’s the fun in that?”

  “And so now you want …”

  “The spotlight, of course. I want to see my name in your paper. I want an agent. I want Al Pacino to play me in the movie. I want it all.

  “I have a place in Lonelyville, out near Red Rock Canyon. I gave the nurse a map and permission for you to go into my place and take out my personal stuff. You only have twenty-four hours to do this.