Deadly Disclosures

by Julie Cave

  Thankfully, this seemed to satisfy him. When she took him up to his bedroom to get ready to go to sleep, he said to her thoughtfully, "If I did have a daughter, I'd want her to be just like you."

  Ella held back her tears until she made it to her own bedroom. As she had done many times before, in helpless frustration, she inwardly shouted at the ceiling. This is so unfair! How could this happen to my father? As had always been before, she did not receive a reply.

  ****

  He was back, stalking the decaying streets of northeast DC, but this time he had his eyes firmly fixed on his prey. This time, he wore an oversized, hooded sweatshirt and baggy, low-rise jeans. Other than his pale face, he blended into the neighborhood seamlessly. By now they were used to him. He had visited Lakeisha several times that week, taking her for a coffee and food, and paying her well for it. Her faceless boyfriend and the others in her small gang figured he was either a do-gooder hoping to get her off the street, or that he had a little thing for her. Either way, he suspected they all thought he was incapable of hurting a fly.

  This time, when Lakeisha saw him, she came trotting over eagerly.

  "Hi, Lakeisha, how are you?" he asked.

  "Hi," she said. "Same drill tonight?"

  Not quite.

  "Yeah — let me guess, coffee, cheeseburger, and apple pie?" he asked, smiling at her. She hadn't changed her diet and he ordered the same thing for her every time he saw her.

  "Onto a good thing, why change?" she shrugged.

  At the cafe, he watched her obscurely, committing every feature and detail to memory. He wanted to remember everything. During their discussions, he'd learned that Lakeisha had to get high to tolerate her life on the street. She hated herself — scrounging for food and worse, and she hated how she lived, but she would do it to obtain more heroin. She was almost apathetic now, having had it drummed into her head from a young age that she would never amount to anything. She had seemed to accept that this would be her lot in life, and that it would never improve.

  "How come you never told me your name?" she suddenly asked.

  So you could never mention it to anybody.

  "Didn't think you were that interested," he said. "Aren't I just another social worker to you?"

  She considered. "Nope, you better than that. You don't expect nothing from me."

  "Well, just call me John," he said. It wasn't even close to his real name.

  She continued to eat and he continued to think about her history. Her boyfriend did indeed spend most of his life trying to obtain heroin for himself, and he was mean when he didn't get it. He then gave her heroin when she needed it, and precious little else. If she did something he didn't like, his favorite punishment was to get rough with her. When she showed some initiative or expressed a desire to get off the street, his favorite punishment was to withhold heroin. Her addiction to it was so great that she would beg and plead and agree to do anything as long as she received a hit. Fearful of having it withdrawn from her again, she would dutifully do as she was told.

  He'd asked her if she was worried the heroin would kill her. She seemed resigned to that fate, too. She told him that if it wasn't the heroin, it would be her boyfriend, and if it wasn't him, it would be the street.

  He thought it was pitiful, but it didn't lead to a welling of empathy or rage against the injustice of the world. It just made him more resolved to do what he needed to do.

  Surreptiously, he checked that the card in his pocket was still there. It would be an important part of the staging.

  "Well, gotta go," she said with a sigh, finishing her coffee. He stood, too.

  "I'll walk you back. It's not safe," he said.

  Lakeisha gave him a wry look that conveyed she was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

  Not tonight.

  The alleyway he picked was only a block away, and it was quiet and ill-frequented. The lighting there was particularly bad. He walked street side, so that she couldn't try to escape in that direction.

  At the mouth of the alley, he grabbed her arm with sudden force. She swung around to look at him, bewildered hurt on her face. She hadn't expected violence from him.

  "I have a gun," he said, very quietly. "It has a silencer. I will use it if I have to."

  She quickly grasped the rules and they moved into the dark alley.

  "You can take the money," she said desperately. "Whatever you want. Please don't hurt me."

  It was funny, he thought, how someone completely accustomed to being hurt still had keen self-preservation instincts.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Truly, I am. But someone has to stop the cycle, you see."

  She was momentarily confused, but was clearly concentrating on how to escape. She pulled out a small and cdeadly knife from the waistband of her skirt and lunged toward him. He dodged her, moved behind her, and seized her arm. Ruthlessly, he twisted it behind her until she cried out, dropping the knife to the ground. Still not giving up, she drove one boot heel into his shin and he let go of her, remarkably bright, glassy pain shooting through his leg. Making the most of her freedom, she ran toward the street. White-hot rage erupted through his veins, and he caught up with her — over-sized boots being completely impractical to run in. He had to end this, quickly.

  Finally, he subdued her and dragged her back to the original spot he'd picked out. It had to be exactly right.

  He was efficient. He was not a torturer. He didn't do it for his own sick pleasure. He did it for the good of society.

  That was why he placed her body gently and respectfully sitting — well, slumping — against the wall of the tenement. He wrapped a cord around one of her upper arms. From a distance, she looked like one of many residents of the area, sleeping off a big hit of heroin.

  He slipped the card from his pocket and read it again, enjoying its simplistic message. He slid the card down one of her boots and stood back, drinking in the atmosphere.

  Then he left, as smoothly and quietly as he had come, his thoughts already turning to his next hunt.

  Enjoy a sneak preview of the third book in the compelling new Dinah Harris mystery series,

  Pieces of Light

  Chapter 1

  Sussex 1 State Prison

  Waverly, Virginia

  Prisoner Number: 10734

  Death Row

  I am on death row and they say I deserve to be here. I suppose I agree. I don't really know. I don't have any feelings about it. I know I killed some people, and that's why I'm here.

  I live in a cell that feels like the size of a postage stamp, but at least I'm by myself. I have my books, a television, and some paper on which to write. I have my thoughts, which are strangely muted as though they have jumped into someone else's head and I'm eavesdropping. They've been that way ever since they arrested me. Before that, my thoughts were all mine and I could hear them just fine.

  Apparently, this didn't help me during the trial. The prosecutor called me a "cunning, cold killer who took great pleasure in planning the details of his innocent victims deaths." The judge told me that my unemotional response to the guilty verdict read out by the jury foreman "chilled him to the bone." Even the newspaper, brought by my family when they visited the first time, had a picture of my blank face with the headline: "No Remorse Shown by Bomber." Why didn't you show any remorse? my family asked me. Why not at least apologize?

  Because I don't feel remorse. I don't feel guilt. I don't feel sorry. I feel nothing. Somebody has hit the mute button on me and I no longer can communicate the way I used to.

  I've heard the rumors about me — that I'm a sociopath, that I'm angry and hatred-fueled, that I'm mentally impaired because I have no conscience.

  I have felt anger, hatred, frustration, guilt, and even love before all this happened. I used to be a fully functioning, reasonably normal human being. I think that pieces of me are dying slowly, so that by the time my execution date rolls around, I'll be almost dead anyway. There are pieces of light inside of me, slowly
extinguishing themselves, one by one.

  I don't blame this prison, or the police, or the jury or the judge. It is my fault — the dying process started the day I set the first bomb. When it exploded, something inside me let go and seems to be irreplaceable. It was then that the numbness began to creep over me the way the deadly cold slowly claims the life of those lost in the snow or at sea. The more bombs I set off, the worse it got. Perhaps, then, I'm a suicide bomber, only by slow degrees rather than all at once.

  But I was caught, and sent here to death row. My lawyer told me he'd appeal until there were no appeals left. I've probably got 15 years of life in a lonely cell ahead of me. I have to live here 23 hours a day. The 24th hour I go outside to a special yard for death row inmates and stare at the sky, wishing that my spirit could be free. My family visits me every 90 days, as per the warden's regulations, but they are not allowed to touch me. They can only speak to me through glass. I eat when they push a tray into my cell and I sleep when they dim the lights. At least I get to choose the method of my execution — lethal injection or the electric chair. Another death row inmate told me I should make up my mind now: by the time they get around to executing me, it's likely I'll have lost the mental capacity to make that decision.

  I haven't yet lost the ability to dream.

  I dream of silence. Here, it is never quiet. When awake, death row inmates yell at each other, scream at the guards, make demands of God, and vent their frustrations. When asleep, they weep, cry out, howl, or whimper, depending on which nightmare they're having.

  I dream that I have a normal life — loving parents, perhaps a wife and kids. Not the dysfunctional mess of a family I currently have to deal with. I dream that I have the freedom of a bird, to fly where my heart desires, unfettered by the judgments of men.

  I dream of being stuck in traffic, waiting on a delayed flight in an airport, being unable to find a parking space, and a thousand other little grievances because it would mean that I was free.

  I know there aren't many who would feel sympathy for me. What about the lives of the victims? They didn't get to choose the circumstances of their death. I, a convicted killer, have more rights in that regard than they ever did.

  That's true. I don't have a reply to that.

  So why on earth did I do it? I hear this frequently from my mother, who considers herself an abject failure in the parenting department because her son grew up to be a convicted murderer and death row inmate.

  I have no reply to that either. I don't know. I just don't know.

  Someone is coming who might be able to help me understand why. Her name is Dinah Harris. She used to be an FBI agent and she wants to write a book about people like me. She helped to track me down and arrest me but I'm not angry with her. I don't feel anything.

  Actually, I'm looking forward to it. She has black hair and pale skin and eyes that are haunted. I can see that she has pain in her past, like I do. I can tell that she is a complex woman, with deeds she wishes were left undone and words left unsaid.

  When she visited me the first time, to ask me whether I'd be willing to participate in her book, I told her that I would. She smiled and suddenly I saw that my initial impression had been a little wrong. Yes, she'd been haunted and hurt and regretful. But when she smiled, all of that was stripped away and I saw compassion, peace, and understanding.

  So I guess the truth is that I've agreed to do these interviews with an ulterior motive. I want to question her as much as she wants to question me. I want what she's got — compassion, peace, and understanding so powerful that they have somehow defeated despair, bitterness, and judgment.

  How did she do it?

  ONE YEAR EARLIER

  The funeral service had finally moved to the graveside, following the traditional church ceremony. It had been a moving service, at least for the mourners who didn't make up part of his immediate family. The eulogy was heartfelt and tear-jerking. It was a direct reflection of his life: flashy and impressive, soulful and well-loved. Yet it left an empty feeling in the deepest parts of the hearts of his children and a dark scar on the heart of his wife.

  The mourners were now few — his wife, Rosa, his adult children, Isabelle and Michael, several long-standing family friends, church friends, and some old work colleagues. The small group stood around the casket, staring down at the incongruously glorious spring flowers that adorned it, avoiding eye contact with each other.

  The day was still and hot, an Indian summer's day with a venomous thick humidity that settled on the shoulders of the mourners. The officiating priest's forehead was slick and shiny with sweat, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable in his black attire. Isabelle thought that everybody attending this funeral looked desperate to be elsewhere, though not because of the weather.

  Isabelle had been asked to give a eulogy and had refused. What would she have said about her father? He ruled us with an iron fist. He didn't come to any of my piano recitals. He pushed my mother against the wall when his shirts weren't ironed. He broke my wrist. What a guy. Is it irreverent to remark in his eulogy that I am glad he's dead?

  Isabelle tried to gather her unruly thoughts, reminding herself that she had only one more day to pretend her family was fine. She glanced at her mother, a tiny woman with veiled eyes. Surprisingly, Rosa's grief seemed genuine. Isabelle then darted a glance at Michael, wondering what he was truly feeling behind the freezing blank glare trained at the ground. Beside her, her husband, Scott, fidgeted impatiently, his irritation at having to be here oozing from every pore.

  Isabelle wondered what the other mourners were thinking. Had they really known Reginald McMahon? There had been the public persona: charming, witty, kind, thoughtful. He had been the first to volunteer to help another family, to paint the church, to give money where it was needed. Those outside his family had not known of the explosive temper, the controlling behavior, the acidic tongue. Yet it was clear from the small number of mourners that he'd never really had a close friend.

  Finally, the priest finished his brief remarks and invited those present to say a few words before the casket was lowered into the grave. In awkward silence, the attendees shuffled and desperately avoided looking at the priest or at each other. After a few moments, the priest began the last rites, throwing handfuls of dirt over the casket. He encouraged everyone to follow suit.

  Rosa lingered over the grave and wiped away tears. Isabelle marveled at the depth of her mother's delusion, even on the very day she became free from her husband's tyrannical rule. Michael sauntered over and tossed in a handful of dirt carelessly, the contempt curling his upper lip the only indication of the emotion he was feeling. Isabelle was quick, glad that the whole sorry day was almost at a close.

  The small crowd dispersed, leaving the family to watch the burial in silence. In the still air, the rhythmic thud of the shovels of dirt being tossed into the grave was hypnotic. Isabelle wondered whether her family could now begin to heal, now that he was dead.

  "What am I doing to do?" Rosa finally spoke, her voice a low keen. "What am I doing to do without him?"

  "How about throw a party celebrating the fact that he's dead?" suggested Michael, his voice hard and tight. "Then we could burn his clothes and try to pretend he never existed at all."

  Rosa gasped, turning to Isabelle to defend her.

  "Michael ..." started Isabelle.

  Michael waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, I know. Now is not the time or place. Whatever. It's never the time or place."

  "Well," interjected Scott, with perfect timing, as usual. He looked meaningfully at his watch. "I've wasted too much time here already. I've got to get back to the office." He looked at Isabelle, eyebrows raised, as if daring her to challenge him.

  Isabelle didn't want any confrontation, particularly in front of her mother. She smiled. "Of course, I'll see you at home," she replied and watched Scott stalk away. For a moment, she wondered at her ability to deeply care about how everyone else was feeling when they so often didn't
seem to return the favor. She hoped fervently that Scott would return home that evening in a much better mood.

  She turned to Michael. "We can discuss it anytime you want," she said. "I just don't think the funeral is the most appropriate venue."

  "Don't speak ill of the dead," added Rosa, which didn't help the inflammatory situation at all.

  "Mom," said Isabelle with a touch of frustration.

  "Okay, okay," her mother relented. "We're all upset, I understand."

  We are, but for different reasons than you think.

  "Let's have dinner tomorrow night at home," Rosa continued. "Will you both come home?"

  Michael glanced at Isabelle, who knew that if she didn't accept the invitation, then he wouldn't either. "Sure, sounds great, Mom," she said, with a long look at her brother.

  "Sure," he agreed. He didn't raise his eyes from the ground, where he was scuffing the toe of his sneaker in the dirt.

  They began the walk to the parking lot in silence, Isabelle wondering when this agonizing day would finally be over.

  * * * *

  He had been told that he looked like Billy Idol, the eighties rock icon, and he'd been pleased with that. So now, when he was in combat mode, he thought of himself as Billy Idol. As he worked, he hummed some of Idol's songs and changed the words to suit himself. Instead of singing, It's a nice day for a white wedding, he sang: It's a nice day for some blood shedding.

  As he sang, he built the bomb.

  He'd spent yesterday preparing for his target. There were a number of prerequisites: an older building was preferable, plenty of space at the front or side of the building, and the possibility of little collateral damage. It was important to him that surrounding buildings, like family homes, were not impacted by the blast. That's why he was tailoring the bomb not to ensure maximum payload but simply to damage the target building. He absolutely didn't want a child sleeping in her bedroom to wake to shrapnel peppering her curtains.

  It was important that people knew that he wasn't a monster. He wasn't interested in causing maximum harm. He just wanted to make his point.