A Man of Secrets
Page 22
His first order of business upon landing at Charleston International Airport the day before had been to rent a vehicle and drive to Columbia to interview Orson Lee Finch. Over the years, Ethan had studied dozens, perhaps hundreds, of photos and video of Finch, but he’d never met him in person. Face-to-face, Finch’s appearance had taken him by surprise. The Twilight Killer was a small man, pale and wiry with bright blue eyes magnified behind the thick lenses of silver-framed glasses. His grooming was fastidious—crisp khaki uniform, combed hair, clean and clipped nails. He resembled a scholar or historian. He did not look like a serial killer. Ethan couldn’t help but wonder how Finch had managed to survive for as long as he had behind bars. Maybe he was small enough and his appearance so nondescript that he’d managed to go unnoticed. Or maybe his looks were deceiving.
They’d sat on plastic chairs, eyeing each other warily through the partition until Finch had picked up the phone. A few minutes of awkward conversation had ensued while Ethan tried to get a feel for his subject. Finch had struck him as quiet and reflective, a man who’d long ago made peace with his deeds and circumstances. His placid demeanor never altered until Ethan had broached the topic of Finch’s mother. Then the blue eyes seemed to intensify behind the glasses and the corner of Finch’s mouth twitched, as if he were suppressing a painful memory.
“Your mother never married, did she?” Ethan had spoken in a conversational tone, trying to draw the man out. “That must have been tough. Children born out of wedlock were stigmatized back in your day. You were probably teased in school, maybe even bullied.”
Finch said nothing.
“Your mother worked as a housekeeper, so I imagine money was tight. Barely enough for necessities, let alone extras. You wore hand-me-down clothing from the people whose houses she cleaned, and as much as you enjoyed having those nice things, you resented where they came from, didn’t you? You were hostile to the hand that fed you.”
Finch watched him avidly through the partition.
Ethan glanced down at his notes even though he had everything memorized. “Despite your disadvantages, you were a good student. Always the brightest in your class, but your financial situation limited your prospects. A full-ride scholarship must have been the answer to all your prayers. A dream come true. You studied horticulture at a state school, right? You wanted to be a landscape architect. Then your mother became ill during your junior year, and you were forced to drop out of college to take care of her. That’s when you got your first job as a gardener. You had to go back, hat in hand, to the people who had given you their throwaway clothing.”
Finch had stared at him for the longest moment before answering. “Is this your way of establishing rapport, Special Agent Barrow? Or do you wish to impress me with the amount of homework you’ve done?”
“How’s this for homework? You have a daughter out there somewhere. No one knows her name or where she’s been since your incarceration. Some believe her mother was your first victim. Did she fit your criteria? A single mother without morals. A loose woman who valued her freedom more than her child. What happened? Did she refuse to marry you? Is that what set you off?”
Finch’s expression never changed, but something dark glinted at the back of his eyes. “After all these years and all the files you people have amassed—mountains, I’m told—no one has ever gotten it right. Not even the esteemed James Merrick.”
“Is that a denial?”
Finch studied his hand for a moment. “Merrick’s profile was flawed from the start. It was written from the cynical presumption that I harbored ill will toward my own mother. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was a happy child. We didn’t have money, but I never wanted for affection. I wasn’t starved for attention. Your psychological evaluations to the contrary, I wasn’t bitter then about my lot in life and I’m not bitter now. That must surprise you. You’re thinking, if he’s really innocent, how can he be so accepting of such a cruel injustice?”
“How do you accept it? If you really are innocent, that is.”
A smile flickered for the first time. “I could never give an explanation that would satisfy someone like you. Acceptance isn’t in your nature. A man like you will always be at war with his emotions. Tormented by what he can’t know. Unable to make peace with his past.”
Damn if the observation hadn’t been insightful and perhaps even prophetic.
After Ethan had left Orson Lee Finch, he’d driven to the state psychiatric hospital. He was no stranger to the layout of the parking area or the maze of hallways and wards. He’d visited regularly for years and was afforded certain privileges because of his position and background. He had signed in and then been escorted up to the fourth floor, where an orderly had unlocked a small room and waved Ethan inside.
James Merrick had been at the window gazing out over the shady grounds. He hadn’t turned when Ethan entered, nor had he acknowledged Ethan’s presence in any way. That wasn’t unusual. He never gave any indication of recognizing Ethan from one visit to the next. Ethan had learned to ignore the long silences and unblinking stares, as well as the disturbing sounds that came from deep within the facility. He focused his attention instead on the patient’s journals, poring over pages and pages of painstakingly scribbled gibberish in the hope of finding the one clue that would break everything open.
He had that clue now. The last piece of the puzzle was finally within his grasp.
“I came here to tell you that new evidence has turned up in your case,” he’d said to Merrick.
The man had given no indication of comprehension, but Ethan hadn’t let the prolonged silence discourage him.
“I won’t go into the details yet. It’s early stages of the investigation. But I wanted you to know that I’m still out there looking for the truth. I never believed you were guilty. Not once in all these years.” Ethan walked over to the window and placed his hand briefly on the man’s frail arm. “Do you remember me?” he murmured. “I’m Ethan.”
Nothing so much as a blink.
“I work for the FBI just as you did. I even do support investigations for the BAU. Back in your day, it was called the Behavioral Science Unit.”
Still no response.
“My stepfather is Richard Barrow. You knew him once. I took his name when he married my mother, but he’s not my dad. My real name is Merrick. Ethan Merrick. I’m your son.”
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Copyright © 2019 by Marilyn Medlock Amann
ISBN-13: 9781488051968
A Man of Secrets
First published by Harlequin Intrigue in 1996
This edition published in 2019
Copyright © 1996 by Marilyn Medlock Amann.
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