The Darker Side

by Cody McFadyen

  “Maybe,” I say, “but that wasn’t our deal. I agreed to confess something to you. I think I’ve upheld my end of the deal.”

  He sighs. “Yes, and I did swear to God. But I hope you’ll consider this in the future. I hope you’ll wake up one day and ask for God to forgive you for murdering your mother. Don’t you understand? It’s the only way you’ll ever see her again.”

  “The other victims?” My voice is ice.

  “Very well. Dermestid beetles. They’re flesh eaters, used in taxidermy to clean the skin from bones. They’re very efficient and easy to purchase. We used them to strip the bodies of their flesh, and then we ground the bones into powder and tossed the powder onto consecrated ground.”

  “You had them…eaten?” My voice is incredulous.

  “The body is just a vessel, Smoky. Their souls are in heaven.” He is calm, assured, certain.

  “I’m sure their families will appreciate that.”

  “It doesn’t matter if they do or they do not. The truth remains the truth.”

  I fight the desire to strangle him with my bare hands. Just a few more questions.

  “How did you find out about Dexter Reid?”

  “Dexter’s…situation became a controversial topic on a number of Catholic blogs. We monitored worldwide Catholic-oriented news via the Internet daily.”

  I picture Michael and Frances as ghouls, crouched together in the dark, faces lit by a computer screen as they licked their dead lips and sifted through cyberspace.

  “Let’s discuss your method of operation. Was it always the same? Frances infiltrated the congregation and bugged the confessionals?”

  He nods. “We’d listen to the tapes together and make our choice. Frances would befriend them, learn their patterns.”

  “And you’d do the killing.”

  “She helped at times, but generally, yes. That was our division of labor.”

  “Then she’d stay with the congregation for a while after, so no one would suspect her of taking part in the disappearance.”

  “Correct.”

  “You started your…work before the Internet existed. What did you plan to do originally? With the tapes you made?”

  “We weren’t certain. We knew we needed to record our work, but I’ll admit it wasn’t clear to us at first just how those records would be used. Would we send them to a news organization? Direct to the people?” He glances up and smiles. “We trusted God would show us the way, and in His time, He did.”

  “Why did you change tack with Lisa Reid? You infiltrated her congregation personally.”

  He shrugs. “Eagerness, I suppose. We spent twenty years building our case. We knew our work was nearly done, and didn’t want to wait a second longer than was necessary. As we were going to come out into the open, there was no further need to be so careful. Besides, it gave me the opportunity to leave my own thumbprint on the chalice.”

  “Weren’t you concerned that Lisa would recognize you on the plane?”

  “I wore a beard, and changed the color of my eyes. She’d always seen me in a wheelchair before. When someone is handicapped, quite often all people remember is the affliction.”

  True enough, I think.

  “How did you know that your work was done?”

  This is a key question for me, the behavior that makes Michael and Frances unique. Serial killers like to kill. They kill until they are stopped by capture or death. The Murphys had effectively stopped themselves by revealing their hand.

  “We’d always known, had always agreed, that we would understand the moment when we had done enough. A few months ago, it was given to us that that moment had come.”

  “How?”

  Michael Murphy looks right into my eyes and smiles, and it is the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen, the most beatific expression on a human face I’ve ever witnessed.

  “God told me.”

  His voice radiates with awe. This is no joke or test.

  “He spoke to you?”

  “Even better—He appeared to me. It was approximately three months ago. I’d been sleeping fitfully for some reason that night, which was unusual. I always sleep deeply, and well. I had dozed off for a moment. I was at the precipice, that place where you tumble into true unconsciousness, when His voice came to me.”

  “What did He say?” I prod, though I don’t really need to. He’s there, in that moment, hearing the voice of God.

  “‘Michael,’ He said, ‘you’ve done well, my son. You’ve walked a difficult path at great personal risk to yourself, but the time has come for the next part of your journey.’”

  I notice that only Michael gets the credit in this narrative; no mention of Frances.

  “‘The time has come for you to reveal the truth to the world. It will not be easy. Many will revile you and reject the Word, but do not let that deter you. My way is the Way, and you must continue forward even though you walk through a field of broken glass.’” Tears are running down Michael’s face now. “‘Yes, Lord,’ I cried out to Him. ‘Whatever You ask, I will obey. Whatever burdens You give me, I will carry.’” He pauses for a long time. I wait him out. “Then He was gone, and I felt energized and refreshed, even though I hadn’t slept. I felt as though I could run for days, weeks, months, years.” He comes back to the present, wipes the tears from his face without seeming to notice he’s doing it. He focuses on me again. “God put us on that path. God told me we had come to the end of it. That’s the way it’s always been, for all the prophets since time began.”

  He believes it. Every word. I can see it on his face, hear it in his voice. The insanity is back in his eyes again, that bright and shining light. Why had they stopped? For the same reason they had started; the Murphys were insane.

  “What about Valerie Cavanaugh, Michael? She was a break in your pattern. Each victim had an outward secret that masked something darker. What was Valerie’s outward secret?”

  He pauses, thinking. “You’re right,” he admits. “She didn’t have one. But when we saw her confession…she did it to torment her priest, not because she was truly seeking God’s forgiveness. You could hear the pride in her voice. Once, she even giggled. That poor man. He struggled with what to do, I’m sure, but the seal of confession is absolute.” He shrugs. “Not the same as the rest, but her death still serves the greater message: the necessity for full truth before God. Confession without contrition is the worst kind of lie there is.” His voice goes flat. “This world is better off without her.”

  I cock my head at him. “She made you angry, didn’t she? She was the knowing antithesis of what you were trying to say. Your version of Satan.”

  He shrugs, not agreeing, but…

  “Question, Michael. Why just women? Weren’t there any men with secrets worth killing to make your point?”

  He stares at me blankly, puzzled.

  “What does that matter?”

  I find myself at a loss for words. He doesn’t see it, I realize. There it is, the blind spot, and it’s willful, reflexive, and profound. Self-revelation, I’d come to understand long ago, real, deep and personal deconstruction, was a luxury the psychopath did not have.

  “One last thing, Michael. The scars on Frances’s wrists—they’re real. When did she try to kill herself?”

  He smiles at me, and shakes his head. “She never tried. She needed the scars to play her part. It was risky, but I got her through, with the help of God.”

  I stare at him. I wish, on some level, that I could muster up a look of shock, or disbelief, but I know I’m long past that. I’m reminded of something a seasoned profiler once told me, back when I was new and bright and could still be shocked: sometimes only the worst stuff is true.

  I stand up. Right now, I want to get out of here, I want that more than anything. I remember, though, the final thing. I turn to him and smile.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  “Everything I just told you about my mother was a lie.” I smirk. “You really are
stupid. Did you actually think I’d confess to murder? Here? We’re being videotaped, for God’s sake.”

  I leave the room without saying another word, his curses following me.

  This is my thrill, the thing that widens my eyes: the suffering they feel when I deny them what they need.

  “SO IT’S OVER THEN,” ROSARIO says to me on the phone.

  “It’s over. They’ll both be put to death, eventually.”

  She is silent, and I feel that silence, understand it. It’s the silence of the unfulfilled, the unfinished sentence.

  “Why doesn’t it make me feel any better?” she asks me.

  “You know why.”

  She sniffles. She is crying.

  “Yes, I guess you’re right.”

  It’s not enough because her child is still dead, will always be dead, will never come back. Nothing fixes that, not ever.

  “Thank you for calling me, Smoky. And for…well, everything.”

  “Good-bye, Rosario.”

  We hang up and I know good-bye means good-bye for good. The families of the victims don’t seek me out; I am forever associated in their minds with the loss of their loved ones. Rosario is grateful, they always are, but I need to be their past, not their future. It used to bother me; I understand it much more personally now.

  I drive to my next stop and consider the past weeks. Have I learned anything? As much as I despise learning because of my brushes against the monsters, I also know it’s one of the main things separating me from them; I can learn and change, they cannot.

  Secrets. They run through everything we do, everything we are. Religion calls them sins, and says they’ll keep us from heaven. They can be big or small. We can hold on to them like they were bars of gold. Everyone has them.

  Maybe religion has it right, but perhaps it’s just a metaphor. Maybe, just maybe, we carry heaven and hell with us, right here on earth, all the time. Maybe holding on to our darkest secrets puts us in a living hell, and perhaps the relief we feel when we disclose them is a form of heaven.

  “HI, FATHER,” I SAY.

  Father Yates smiles, happy to see me. The church is empty. He guides me to the first pew and asks me to sit down.

  “How are you?” he asks me.

  “I’m well, thanks. How are you?”

  He shrugs. “Better. Some things have changed. Churches have been issued equipment to check for bugs in the confessionals. Issued with the PR edict of ‘ensuring, in this age of technology, that the sacrament remains sacrosanct.’”

  “Someone’s going to put two and two together eventually.”

  “I agree. But the church is reluctant to admit its weaknesses.” He grins. “Which is one of its weaknesses.”

  “Still not jockeying for a cardinal-ship, I see,” I tease him.

  “I’m not built for that kind of politics, so it’s just as well.”

  “Yeah, me neither.”

  “Then I guess we’ll both just continue to do what we do.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Interesting, though,” he muses. “Michael Murphy said that he was about the truth, but in the end, he may do more damage to the safe haven of confession than anyone else in the history of the Catholic Church.”

  “He’ll never see it that way, Father. Not in a million years. They can’t deal with their own contradictions.”

  We fall silent. I look at Jesus, still paint-chipped, still suffering.

  “Why are you here, Smoky?”

  “I need something from you.”

  “What?”

  I hesitate. Find Jesus again.

  Am I sure about this?

  “I need you to hear my confession again. It’ll be brief.”

  He studies me for a moment and then he stands up and indicates the way to the confessional booth.

  “FORGIVE ME, FATHER, FOR I have sinned. You know how long it’s been since my last confession. I lied to a man today. It was a big lie.”

  “What was the nature of this lie?”

  “I told him I had done something, something terrible. I later told him I had lied, that I hadn’t really done what I’d said.”

  “But you had?”

  The big question, with the big answer, the one that never leaves me. It’s there with me when I wake up, when I go to sleep, as I go through my day. It played a part, I’m sure, in my career choice.

  “Yes. I had actually done what I confessed to him.”

  “Do you want to tell me what you told him?”

  “No, Father.”

  A pause. I can almost hear him thinking this through. I can sense his reluctance, and his suspicion.

  “This thing you told him, do you think God heard it too?”

  “If He exists, then it was really meant for Him, Father.”

  “I see. So you want to admit here that what you said was true, but you don’t want to say it again.”

  “Something like that.”

  He sighs.

  “Do you want to be forgiven for this thing?”

  “I don’t know, Father, to be honest. I just know I want to admit that it happened. That’s a start, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Smoky. It’s a start. But I can’t give you penance or absolution this way.”

  “Penance is under way and has been for a long time. As far as absolution goes…we’ll have to see. I just need to know that you heard me, Father. I’m still not sure if forgiveness is a part of the picture.”

  I’d ask my mom, if I could.

  “I heard you, Smoky. And if you ever want to tell me more, I’ll listen.”

  “I know, Father. Thank you.”

  I HEAD DOWN THE HIGHWAY toward home and Bonnie and Tommy and I think of my mother. I remember her beauty, her smiles, her temper. I remember every second I spent with her, and I cherish those memories for what they are: times and places that will never exist again.

  I killed my mother when I was twelve. I did it from love, true, but I’ve always wondered: Is that why I can understand the monsters the way I do? Because there’s a little bit of monster in me too?

  What do you think, God?

  He remains silent, which is my continuing and basic problem with Him.

  Mom?

  Maybe it’s my imagination, but the breeze in my hair through the car window feels like a reassuring touch, and I am, for a moment, at peace.

  44

  “HOW IS SHE?” I ASK.

  “See for yourself,” Kirby says.

  The hotel room Callie chose to quit Vicodin in has seen better days. She’s lived inside this room for twelve days now and it reeks of sweat and vomit. She’d refused to go to a formal treatment center, which hadn’t surprised me.

  “Housekeeping is going to hate us when we finally let them clean this place up,” I observe.

  “I’ll be sure and tip them well, honey-love, don’t you worry.”

  Callie stands at the door of the bathroom. She’s pale and she has the shadows of exhaustion under her eyes, but she looks more steady than she has so far.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Like something approaching human. Finally. I think I’ll be ready to leave this hellhole tomorrow.”

  Kirby and I have been taking shifts with her. We’ve taken turns holding her while she shook and sweated and cursed. We’ve held her hair back while she vomited. Once, I stroked her hair while she wept at the wanting.

  “Geez, about time,” Kirby says. “This has really put a crimp in my sex life.”

  “Mine too,” I say.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Callie replies. “I haven’t seen my man in the buff since this began either. We’ll all be returning to our respective lovers soon.”

  “How’s your back?” I ask her. “Any pain?”

  She comes and sits down on the bed.

  “There hasn’t been any pain in my back for a long time, Smoky. The Vicodin became about the Vicodin.”

  “Wow, so you were a bona fide junkie, huh?” Kirby says.

  “I
loved my little white pills, it’s true, but thankfully, I love my man more. Speaking of which—where do we stand on the wedding?”

  “All systems go. Your daughter has been helping with the last details. Brady tried to slip in an invitation to your parents, but I caught it and pulled it from the pile.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I aim to please. Anyway, no worries. Everything’s set. You just need to get the heck out of here, hit the gym, maybe do a little tanning…”

  “I don’t ‘do tanning,’” Callie says. I’m happy to hear some of the haughtiness back in her voice. It’s a good sign.

  “Whatever. You want to look like the corpse bride, it’s your funeral. I mean wedding.”

  “All redheads are pale complected,” Callie protests.

  “There’s a difference between ‘pale’ and ‘junkie white,’” Kirby retorts.

  “Is it really that bad?” She sounds distressed.

  Kirby sighs. “You’re going to make me be nice, aren’t you? No, it’s not that bad, I’m just giving you a hard time, Callie-babe. Truth is, you look great even though you’ve been sweating and puking and stuff. I kind of hate you for it.”

  Callie smiles. “Made you feel bad, made you say it.” She sticks her tongue out at Kirby.

  “Bitch,” Kirby observes.

  There’s a lull in the conversation. Callie stares down at her hands, obviously working up to saying something.

  “Listen close, because you’ll only hear it once,” she says. “Thank you both for this. I couldn’t have done it alone.”

  “You’re welcome,” I tell her.

  “No problemo,” Kirby chirps. “Besides, I got to see you down on your knees, praying to the porcelain god.” She chortles. “Wish I could have gotten that on camera.”

  Callie makes a face, and more good-natured bickering ensues. I listen with half an ear, smiling in the right places.

  Three women, all proud, all a little damaged…the burden of our secrets becomes heavy so easily. We don’t trust enough to share, and there are parts of us that we keep for ourselves, things our men will never know, however much we love them. Things we prefer, most of the time, not even to share with each other.