46
“Do I make you nervous, Pat?” Erin asked.
He shook his small head. “No, ma’am, you don’t. And it’s Patrick.”
Patrick not Pat Dorsey was far more put together than the last time we had seen him. His thin, sun-damaged face was clean shaven, the fine gray hair of his long ponytail looked to have been recently shampooed and blow-dried.
He and Erin were sitting across from each other on opposite sides of the table in the interview room. Audio and video tapes were rolling and Frank, Bud, Ernestine, and I were observing through a two-way mirror in the recording room.
Walt and Joe were chasing down other leads relating to Benton Weston, Randy North, and Teddy Sears.
“Patrick, sorry,” Erin said. “Women don’t make you nervous?”
He shrugged. “I guess, maybe. I don’t know. I like women. I . . . ain’t claiming to understand them or anything, but . . .”
“I hear ya,” she said. “Well, fair enough. Thanks again for coming in to talk to us. We appreciate it. Just trying to figure a few things out, tie up a few loose ends. That sort of thing. For the tape and to remind you again . . . you’re not under arrest and are free to go anytime you want. It would look bad . . . be more suspicious and cause us to take a closer look at you, but . . . you can do it.”
He nodded. “Don’t mind answerin’ questions. Got nothing to hide, man. My hands and conscience are clean.”
“We appreciate that. Now, we looked into the story you gave us about your previous troubles and we’re getting some conflicting information. You said your accuser was your wife’s best friend, but . . . it looks like they were at most merely acquaintances.”
“They were friends. I shouldn’t have fucked her, but . . . it was . . . what’s the word everybody’s using now . . . consensual. We fooled around. She came twice. It was a mutual thing, man. We both wanted it—her more than me. I was wrong to cheat, but I didn’t rape her.”
“Okay,” Erin said. “As far as the assault . . . You said you were just defending yourself when your wife and her friend jumped you—”
“Yeah?”
“But their injuries . . . they both took a pretty brutal beating. Broken collarbone. Dislocated jaw. Fractures. Contusions.”
“They were on something . . . wouldn’t stop coming at me with knives and a fire poker and a baseball bat. Maybe I was a little too . . . ah . . . We were all coked up. They attacked me. I didn’t attack them. I defended myself, man. That’s it. And the truth of it is . . . I was never convicted of anything. So this is just hearsay, man.”
“No, it’s not hearsay, but . . . we’ll move on from that for now.”
“Good, ’cause I thought this was about the mountain murders, man. I mean . . . come on. Nobody wants to sit here and have their past drugged up.”
“You were in the park every day there was a murder.”
“So were a lot of people. I work there. A whole bunch of us do.”
“Speaking of . . . you applied to the Stone Mountain Park police, didn’t you?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you applied to other law enforcement agencies before?”
He shrugged. “A few, yeah.”
“Ever been a cop?”
He shook his head. “Never worked out.”
“Why?”
“Just different stuff. No one thing. I don’t stay in one place for very long. Lot easier just getting a construction or maintenance job.”
“But you’re interested in law enforcement,” she said.
“Sure, I guess,” he said, pursing his lips and shrugging.
“If you were us how would you go about catching him?”
“Who? The killer? Got no idea, man. Maybe . . . I don’t know . . . just like set a trap or something. ’Course . . . he keeps targeting cunts like that reporter bitch . . . you might not want to catch him just yet.”
Erin hesitated a moment, then said, “Good point. Any other, ah, women you have in mind?”
“Not off the top of my head, but I could make a list and get back with you.”
“Please,” she said. “I’d love to see it.”
He nodded and scratched the side of his face with a thumbnail. “You got it.”
“Would I be on it?”
“Not so far,” he said. “But we’re not done yet, are we?”
“No, we’re not. Fair point. Did you know any of the victims?”
He paused for a moment. His eyes widened and he looked caught or trapped or surprised. But it was just for a moment then he shook his head.
“Didn’t know any of them?” she said. “You sure?”
“Positive. Never even saw any of ’em before ’cept the reporter—and that was just on TV.”
“You sure you didn’t know Pam Nichols, the second victim?”
“Absolutely positive. Didn’t know her. Never met her.”
Erin nodded. “I believe you. You didn’t know her, did you?”
“I honestly didn’t,” he said shaking his head.
Erin continued to nod as she withdrew an eight by ten color photo from a file folder on the desk next her and slid it over in front of him. “I believe you, which is why it really makes me wonder why you went to her funeral—something killers sometimes do.”
47
“What do y’all think?” Frank asked.
Erin had joined us in the observation recording room. Patrick was still seated in the interview room.
Ernestine nodded. “He could be our guy. Need to know more about him. But it fits for him to be doing menial, hired help labor. The question is . . . is he smarter than he’s coming across?”
Erin nodded. “He definitely is. What we’re getting is an act. He’s playing Hippy Hank laid-back dude, but you heard some of those toxic leaks. Calling women cunts and bitches and he was glad the reporter was dead.”
Frank nodded. “I agree.”
Ernestine said, “We need to know more about him. See if we can track down info about the other places he’s lived. Moving around like he has may be how he’s eluded detection so far. See if any other similar crimes have been committed in those places. Also, we need to know if he’s had any recent stressors. What set him off, triggered him this time? A breakup? The death of someone close to him? Did he lose another job just before getting this one? That kind of thing.”
“He’s pretty slight,” I said. “Seems weak and out of shape. Smelled like he smokes. Would he be fast enough to catch the victims? Would be strong enough to control them? Get them and the other things up the mountain?”
“It’s a good question,” Frank said.
“Following the pattern of the Bible story you shared with us,” Erin said, “he’d make them carry the wood and supplies up the mountain, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Isaac carrying the wood up the mountain is believed by some to be a metaphor for Christ carrying his own cross. The whole thing is seen as the story of Christ—being sacrificed by his father for the salvation of the world. Maybe he’s following that pattern and metaphor. But he’d have to control them enough to get them to do that.”
“We agree he’s the best suspect we have right now, right?” Frank said.
“If Benton Weston is still really out of the country and Daphne’s murder wasn’t the work of a copycat,” Ernestine said.
“I know we’re short on manpower,” Bud said, “but I think we need to put a tail on him.”
“I agree,” Frank said. “We’ll just have to figure out how.”
“So for now we’re gonna cut him lose?” Erin said.
Frank nodded.
“Thank him for his cooperation and reassure him we don’t think he’s involved. Make him think we don’t consider him a suspect.”
48
“Are you getting attached to me?” Summer asked.
We had just made love and were still lying in bed, which was where I intended to stay when she went to work in a few minutes.
I smiled. “Just might be.”
“Does our age difference bother you?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Not at all.”
“Do you think I’m a surrogate for your mom?” she asked.
“I’d rather not think about that,” I said. “Particularly in light of what we just did.”
“I’m serious.”
“Would it matter if you were?” I asked.
“I care so deeply for you, John. You’re a truly remarkable young man. And I just don’t want to do anything that would . . . that wouldn’t be good for you.”
I started to ask her if I were a surrogate for her son who died but decided I shouldn’t, that I probably was, and that it was okay that I was.
“Are you telling me not to get attached to you?” I asked.
“I’m not sure what I’m saying exactly. Just felt like I should bring it up.”
I thought about it for a long moment. Finally I said, “Everything is good right now, right?”
“Very,” she said. “The best.”
“And any issue we might have—with our age difference or being in different stages of our lives or that we might eventually go in different directions—all has to do with the future, right?”
“Right.”
“Then why don’t we both spend some time contemplating it and revisit it sometime soon—like maybe after this case is over—but in the meantime keep loving and caring for each other the best we can and not borrow any trouble from tomorrow, from the future and what might happen.”
She leaned over and kissed me. “I like that plan,” she said. “I like it a lot. You’re wise beyond your years. No wonder I love you the way I do.”
My eyes widened a bit.
“Did I say that out loud?” she said. “It’s true. I do love you. I have since we first met at the missing and murdered kids group last year. Broke my heart when things ended between us the way they did. I guess the truth is . . . I’m getting attached to you. That’s my . . . that’s probably the real reason I brought it up. I mean I was genuinely asking about you and I care about how all this affects you. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And I’m not really all that concerned about me. I’m really not. Nothing can happen to me any worse than already has. But I’m sure what’s why I even brought it up . . . was because of how attached I’m becoming. Am I scaring you yet?”
“Not at all,” I said, and pulled her to me and held her, our naked bodies pressing hard against each other. “Not at all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Good. I can let you go when you’re ready to. I’ve done it before. It’s going to all be okay.”
“Yes it is,” I said.
“Do you want to make love again before I have to get ready for work?”
“Is that some sort of trick question?”
49
He had been watching her for a while.
She still had no idea.
He wanted her.
Wanted to possess her. Control her. Take her. Make her his own. Dominate. Subjugate.
He wanted her, but he couldn’t have her.
It was a sin. It was against God. Her body was the very entryway to hell itself. To enter her would be to enter hell.
His mom had taught him that. Taught him so many things with a Bible in one hand and a rod in the other.
At times it was an actual rod, at others it was an old leather belt, a piece of oak firewood, a dull pair of kitchen scissors, an extension cord, a wire coat hanger, a rusted pocket knife her daddy had used on her, and the sharp end of an old metal fan blade.
Spare the rod and spoil the child. Says so right there in God’s word. Just like For whom the Lord loves He chastens, And scourges every son whom He receives.
The Lord God had chastened and scourged him by his mother’s firm hand. She had made sure he was worthy to be received.
The devil wanted him, but his mother wouldn’t allow that—even if she had to offer him as a sacred sacrifice to God. Instead she chastened him, scourged him, taught him the sacred art of self-scourging and ultimately how to make sacrifices out of those whose bodies would destroy him, would fling him into the lake of fire for eternal torture and torment.
By offering them up as a sin offering to God, he was not only saving himself but all the other poor souls they would deliver to Satan.
He was weak and he knew it. He had sinned with the reporter, had given into the lust of the flesh. He hadn’t put it inside her, but he had sinned, had gotten carnal with her. She was filthy and deserved what she got, but he had to be careful.
He’d have to be especially careful with the wicked woman child he was following now.
She thought she was smart, this little daughter of the great whore of Babylon. She had stopped running at the park. But she had not stopped running, had not stopped shaking and bouncing the shame of her sin up and down the street for every weak and struggling child of God to see, to look upon with the lust of the eyes, which of course leads to the lust of the flesh.
Instead of running in the park, she was running in the town of Stone Mountain—where even more sinners could see her.
You can run but you can’t hide—not from the eyes of the Lord that roam to and fro searching for sinners, searching for sin.
She was wearing even less than she did when she ran in the park.
He wanted to punish her, wanted to hurt her for her shame, but he knew that was for God to do.
God will do the judging and punishing, he alone is worthy to pass the sentence. You just make the offering.
You’re the priest. You offer the sacrifice. Everything else is up to God.
You can and should enjoy making the sacrifice. Nothing wrong with that. But wrath and vengeance belong to the Lord.
He was wearing his human suit, which would make this easier.
He had done it both ways—snatched the sacrifices with and without his human suit, his mask of sanity—and each had its advantages and he liked it both ways, but there was no question that his human suit made it easier.
He wouldn’t get to chase her like he would if they were in the park late at night, which was a pity. He loved the chase. Loved seeing their muscular bodies run for their lives, but that wasn’t to be this time. This time was just going to be easy.
So much easier. She actually smiled and looked relieved as he approached her.
Little lamb to the slaughter. Come here little lamb. Come to the shepherd of your annihilation.
She stumbled up the mountain carrying the wood for her own sacrificial fire.
It was amazing what he could get them to do, pathetic how hard they worked to prolong their meaningless little existences. Even now, knowing what was coming, they still preferred to make the trek up the mountain to be dropped off it rather than take a bullet to the head down below it.
He was reminded of all the things his mother was able to get his brother to do to avoid the beatings, the humiliation, the pain, yet somehow he had to know he was going to get all those things anyway. All he did was prolong them, make them worse, get hours of her taunts and touches before getting the torture.
Eventually, she had made a sacrifice of his brother and turned all her attention onto him. But he had learned from his brother’s mistakes and he was ready. Or at least far more prepared than he would have been.
She still got the best of him plenty, but not nearly as much as she would have otherwise.
She used to place his penis between the sharp ends of a pair of kitchen scissors and make him stand there and quote scripture. As he did, she would turn on porn and threaten to slice it off if he got an erection.
He never did.
Still doesn’t.
Eventually he not only outgrew her physically but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually as well. He consistently bested her in every way.
It was then that she decided to sacrifice him to God, but she had waited too long. She was no match for him and he instead made a sacrifice of her.
B
ut before she went the way of all flesh she had taught him a lot—including how to appear human, how to mimic everyone else, how to wear a mask and play a part. And he had learned it well, but he hadn’t stopped there. He had added to it, built on it, perfected it, until he had arrived at what he was today—an unstoppable force hidden in plain sight, a predator whose unsuspecting prey welcomes and, at times, actually comes to him.
After he had built the fire to attract the attention of God to his offering, he bound her, cut her, for there is no remission of sins without the shedding of blood, he laid his hands on her to transfer his sin to her, then he shoved her off the mountain as a sin offering to the Lord.
She sped down the mountain with astounding velocity, bouncing and rolling, sliding and careening until she hit the top of Robert E. Lee’s head, slid down his nose and the lapel of his coat until she came to rest in the crook of his bent right elbow.
He hadn’t realized he was so directly above the enormous Confederate carving, but of course with a surface of over an acre and a half, it took up a lot of room.
Blood Stone (John Jordan Mysteries Book 17) Page 15