by Blake Pierce
“Give me a few hours and I’ll send them to you. Anything else? You want me to come out there and go ahead and wrap this case for you? Seems to be a struggle for you.”
“Nope, I’m good. Enjoy your nice comfortable office. And thanks for the assist.”
She ended the call and saw that DeMarco was giving her an awed sort of smile. “How do you do that?” she asked.
“Do what?” Kate asked.
“Keep track of all of your old cases like that.”
“I’ve got a pretty good memory. Not good enough, though. I should be able to remember the killer’s name.”
“From ten years ago? Really?”
“Yeah. Sometimes the harsher cases stick with you.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. Violent Crimes taught me that lesson pretty quickly. And another thing I’ve noticed about these cases…something I also learned from earlier in Violent Crimes. Nothing about these murders seems personal, nothing passionate. I heard you asking on the phone just now about a swingers’ party and an affair. But in my experience, most murders that spring from passion or lust or even love tend to be grisly. The killer seems to make a point to let everyone know why he’s done it.”
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Kate said. “But I also can’t help but wonder if it might be something oriented around secrets. Affairs being kept secret…maybe the killer is reflecting that in his murders. Maybe he wants to show that he can be just as good at keeping a secret.”
“Forgive me for asking,” DeMarco said, “but is there any particular reason you feel so certain there’s an affair at the core of this?”
“I don’t…not necessarily. But the fact that both women were married to absentee husbands has to be scrutinized. And the fact that one of those husbands was admittedly part of an affair makes it seem likely.”
“Good point,” DeMarco said, nodding as she pulled into a Starbucks parking lot. “The absentee husband thing is good. I mean, the Hicks husband was absent by necessity. Part of his job, with all of the travel. But being absent because of an affair…”
“Yeah, it’s both ends of the spectrum.”
“So I guess we just need to figure out if either of those ends is going to yield any answers,” DeMarco said.
Kate nodded her agreement, thinking of the empty shot glass in Lacy Thurmond’s sink.
What was she drinking to numb? Kate wondered. The knowledge of her husband’s affair or something she was hiding herself?
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Logan had told Kate it would take him a few hours to get results, but her phone was ringing less than an hour later. She and DeMarco were sitting in the records room of Chief Budd’s station, scrutinizing the records from both the Hicks and the Thurmond cases. In both cases, new information was still coming in but none of it was helpful in establishing a trail to a killer.
“Hey, Logan,” Kate said as she flipped through a copy of Julie Hicks’s coroner report. “That was quick. Sure you didn’t half ass it?”
“I’m positive,” he said. “So here’s some pretty great news for you. Not only do I have a transcript from the killer’s interrogation sitting right here in front of me, but he’s also currently in prison in Chesterfield. Which, I believe, is less than an hour away from you.”
“Why’d they move him?” she asked. “Wasn’t he placed in Lorton Correctional Complex in Fairfax?”
“He was indeed. But population problems and his apparent exceptional behavior had him moved to a less strict prison.”
“Exceptional behavior?” Kate asked.
“I don’t have those details here,” Logan said. “But yeah, that’s what I have. Anyway, you still need me to send you over the files I have on it? We have them digital so I can just email them.”
“That’ll be great,” Kate said. “It’ll give me something to read on the way to Chesterfield.”
“Keep me posted on this,” Logan said. “All jokes aside, Kate, I’m rooting for you on this. There are a lot of us back in here in Washington that are rooting for you, actually.”
“That means a lot, Logan. Thanks.”
With the call over and a clear next destination in mind, Kate started tidying up the piles of papers and files she had been looking through.
“Chesterfield, huh?” DeMarco asked.
“Yeah. No lead, but the killer from an old case that is sort of similar to this one is currently serving time there.”
“Oh,” DeMarco said. She seemed stalled, though, as if she was trying to understand the relevance of it.
“By speaking to him and maybe understanding why he did the things he did, I hope to be able to maybe apply that mindset to our as-of-now faceless killer.”
DeMarco smiled as she started gathering up her files, too. “Can you fill me in on that case on the way?”
“Of course,” Kate said. She was again impressed with DeMarco’s willingness to learn. She suddenly understood just how much sense it had made for Duran to send DeMarco down here to work with her. It was more than just training; it was testing DeMarco on a variety of things.
As far as Kate was concerned, she was passing every single test with flying colors. And Kate was very happy to be her guide along the way.
***
Kate spent the majority of the drive down to Chesterfield filling DeMarco in on the case. Because she did not fully remember every detail, she had DeMarco scroll through the information Logan had sent as she shared what she knew. It was yet another example of how well they worked together—Kate recounting the case while DeMarco filled in the gaps.
The case was ten years old and, as Kate had correctly remembered, had involved a swingers’ party gone wrong. There were four couples involved, meeting once a month. These parties went on for seven months before a husband from one couple and a wife from another decided that they would rather be together with one another than with their respective spouses. The two jilted spouses pretended not to care and, oddly enough, the parties carried on for two more months. But that ninth party was the last one. The rejected husband, named Tate O’Brien, killed three of the members of the group, including his wife and her lover. O’Brien sat in the home they held the party in until the cops arrived, gladly admitted to the killings, and claimed he wished he’d “had the balls to kill everyone else in the house, too.”
But he hadn’t just killed the three people. He’d butchered them. He’d also apparently had sex with his wife after he’d killed her. And while the reports differed, it had appeared that O’Brien had broken his wife’s lover’s right leg with a hammer and made him watch as he killed her and then proceeded to have intercourse with her while she bled out.
“Jesus,” DeMarco said. “I don’t know that I’d say that was a crime of passion, but it was surely motivated by some strong feelings.”
“True,” Kate said. “And so far, it does not appear that our killer is acting on emotion. Or, if he is, he is hiding it well. But what interests me is the fact that in speaking about the murders, O’Brien was so casual about it. Yeah, so what, I did it. And? That sort of mentality. It’s very similar to the approach our killer is taking.”
“Yeah, sort of casual. Of course, he’s not sitting around and just waiting for us to pluck him up, though.”
Kate nodded, wondering if maybe she was grabbing at straws by going to visit O’Brien ten years after his crimes. But damn it, she had to check every avenue possible, especially when leads seemed nearly impossible to come by.
As they neared Chesterfield, Kate’s mind went back to the court hearing just a few days ago. She pictured Patrick Ellis, aged but very much the same man. It had been like a ghost from her past had popped up to haunt her and without her permission to do so. She wondered if it would be the same when she came face to face with Tate O’Brien. She’d only been in his presence twice, as the case had been very simple. But she remembered the almost vacant look in his eyes, the ho-hum expression of a man who literally did not care about what he had done.
Loga
n said the reports indicated that O’Brien had changed. But Kate wondered. Deep down, could a man capable of that sort of malice ever really change at all?
***
There were no movie-like settings where Kate spoke to O’Brien through a glass partition. Instead, she and DeMarco were led through a side hallway at the front of the prison, which snaked around to the rear of the building. There, their guide left them in the company of an armed guard who stood by a large metal door. The guard opened the door for them and stood his ground by the doorway.
“Nice to see you back at work,” the guard said.
It was an odd comment because Kate did not recall this guard’s face. It was another of those moments when she had to remember that, like it or not, she had made quite a name for herself while working as an active agent.
“I’m here if you need me,” the guard said without much expression.
Kate and DeMarco entered the room. There were only a few things inside the concrete and brick room: a battered and scarred metal table, four chairs, and Tate O’Brien. O’Brien sat on the opposite side of the table from where they stood. His left arm was cuffed to a small metal handle that had been bolted into the table. Other than that, he looked quite happy to have visitors.
Kate studied him as she made her way to the table. He had aged considerably, the ten years that had passed morphing him into a man who looked to have aged at least fifteen or twenty. She assumed this meant that the few years he’d spent in Fairfax lock-up before being moved here had been rough on him. He had grown his hair out; it was down past his shoulders, curled and rather oily looking. He’d also grown a very large beard that looked in very bad need of a trim.
“Do you happen to remember me?” Kate asked as she and DeMarco took the two seats closest to them.
O’Brien shook his head as he looked back and forth between the two agents. “Should I?” he asked.
“I was one of the agents that processed you,” Kate said.
“Ah,” O’Brien said with a chuckle. “That was quite a bit of time ago. I try to not look back into the past.”
“Well, I’m afraid that’s why I’m here,” Kate said. “I was hoping to speak with you about what you did.”
“And what for?” O’Brien asked. “That case is closed. I did it. No question. I admit it. At the time, I believe I happily admitted it.”
“So you no longer admit it happily?” Kate asked.
“No,” O’Brien said, shaking his head bitterly. “I’ve changed quite a bit over these last few years. I don’t really even know the man who committed those murders anymore.”
“I don’t understand,” DeMarco said. “Do you mean you’ve grown past that? That you’ve somehow distanced yourself from the acts?”
“You could say that,” he said. “See, right before I was moved down here to Chesterfield, there was this man coming to Fairfax. He did this prison ministry thing, reading the Bible, teaching us about sin and salvation. I fought it like crazy but after about six months, Jesus got me. I gave my life to the Lord about three years ago. Been on the straight and narrow ever since. I’ve repented of my sins and Jesus has redeemed me. So yes...I no longer identify with the man that killed those people. I did it, yes. I can’t escape that. But I’m free of my sin now and believe I’ve been redeemed.”
Kate couldn’t believe her luck. If O’Brien had legitimately changed to such an extent, he could be more helpful than she’d originally hoped. That was, if she played her cards right.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Kate said. “We’re currently working a case that we can’t nail down any solid leads on. You came to my mind because the killings are sort of similar. Not a crime of lust or passion by any means, but it could be in that arena.”
“And how can I help with that?” he asked. “I told you…that’s not me anymore.”
“All the better,” Kate said. “If you have truly distanced yourself from the murder and no longer identify with the man you used to be, you should be able to clearly describe how you were thinking back then. Think of it as another person. Describe him to me. Describe what he was thinking when he killed those people.”
For the first time since they’d entered the room, O’Brien looked unhappy. He took a deep sigh and nodded slowly. “It hurts to go back there. I do sometimes, just to remind myself that even though I’m forgiven, I still did those terrible things. It’s not like watching a man. It’s like watching a demon—a monster. But I can remember what I was thinking. It’s really clear when I let myself go back.”
“I know it’s hard,” Kate said, doing her best to seem sympathetic. “But it really could help us. Anything you can remember.”
He would not look at them as she spoke. He looked to his right, to the blank wall along the other side of the room. He was ashamed. It made Kate think that O’Brien genuinely had experienced an awakening of some sort. Kate, while a believer in God, wasn’t sure about the whole giving my life to Jesus thing. But O’Brien apparently believed it and it had changed him for the better.
“I remember thinking that if I killed them, it wouldn’t be a big deal,” he said. “She’d cheated on me but I’d allowed it. I mean, in those parties, I’d cheated on her, too. But to tell me she loved another man, it was painful. It hurt in a way thoughts of her having sex with him didn’t. And something in me…something in me just went dark. I remember thinking if I killed her because I loved her, it wouldn’t be as bad. But if I killed her because of the rage I felt, it would be this terrible, horrible act. And so that’s what I told myself. I told myself I was killing her because I loved her—because we, together, had ruined our marriage but she had to be the one to die because she had let it affect her heart. At the time, I thought the sex and swinging was okay. It was fun and innocent because we both consented to it. But when there was emotion involved…well, it made it easier for me to kill them.”
“So it was casual for you,” Kate said. “You managed to convince yourself that killing her because it was an act of love—no matter how skewed—made it okay?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you were so casual about admitting to it? I remember speaking not only to you but to the police that were first on the scene. They said you admitted to it right away, almost as if you didn’t see what the big deal was.”
“That’s right. And at the time, I honestly didn’t.”
“Had you ever thought about killing before?” DeMarco asked.
“I’d thought about it plenty. From an early age, I’d always thought about killing my stepmother. And the neighbor’s dog. I actually almost went through with that when I was about sixteen.”
“So you did it for love?” DeMarco asked. “All three people?”
“No. It was just my wife for love. It was out of rage for her lover. And that third one…if I’m being honest, I just got carried away. It was almost…fun by that point.”
It looked like he was on the verge of tears and Kate wasn’t sure how much more he’d be able to take. It was just as well, really. She was pretty sure she’d gotten everything she was going to get from him. And while it really didn’t amount to much, it at least shone a light on the mindset of someone who had no problem with casual killing.
“You said you almost killed that dog when you were younger,” DeMarco said. “Why the almost?”
Kate was pleasantly surprised. She had thought about asking the very same question but figured it might not even matter; it was a subject that could easily take them off topic. But for a rookie agent, it was a great tidbit to have picked up on.
“See, that was a rage one. That dog would always chase our cat. When our cat had kittens, the dog got to the litter. Ate all but one of them. I had this twenty-two rifle I used to hunt with and I went out on the back porch one day when it came around. I aimed at it, almost squeezed the trigger.”
“Even then, did you realize it was a decision based on rage, not love?” DeMarco asked.
“You know, I never thought of it. But yes, that
makes sense.”
“Have you talked to other men here about it?” Kate asked.
“About the dog? Sure. And even about the difference between what I thought of killing out of love and rage. Because once I was washed of my sins, you realize that there is no such thing as killing for love. Not even if you were to kill an intruder that was threatening your family. Even in that case, love for your family isn’t why you kill. It’s self-preservation.”
“So then how do you apply that to killing your wife and the rest of the spree?” Kate asked.
O’Brien gave this some thought and nodded, as if understanding for the first time. “I suppose that was self-preservation, too. This other man had caught my wife. I had to defend my honor, or my love for her.”
“So are you of the opinion that any murder, particularly those with lust attached to it, could not be done out of what the killer sees as love? Do you think all killers try to place the blame there rather than on the rage?”
“Oh yes. I see that clearly now. No murder is ever out of an act of love—no matter how much the killer tells himself it is.”
Kate thought of the little circle of friends and lovers around Amber Hills and tried to apply this principle. It was surprisingly easy. And even if O’Brien was spouting some religious nonsense, it was a principle she had never quite latched on to over the course of her career.
And it made a scary sort of sense, given the current case.
Whoever was doing the killing was in some way attached to the victims but likely held no truly deep affection.
“Mr. O’Brien, I do thank you for your time,” Kate said as she got to her feet. “And I’m very glad to see that you’ve changed.”
“I wish I could help you more,” he said. “But honestly…it’s like watching a different person when I pull up those memories. I can tell you this, though. Someone killing in such a way, without any care or passion to it…he doesn’t care about sending a message. He’s not trying to prove anything, I bet. And that would make him more dangerous, right?”