by John Farrow
“That would be an indulgence,” Dreher contended. “Here’s a tip, Émile. Not that it can do you any good now. One does not indulge in murder. The proper killer needs a sound reason, a logical strategy, a platform.”
“Of course,” Cinq-Mars agreed, and allowed a note of derision to enter his own tone, “I was getting to that. But let’s not lose sight of the fact—the fact—that ego was involved in your gambit. The killer did not hide in attics merely to get a handle on police procedure. The killer could have walked in the front door and shown his badge to manage that. The killer hid in attics in order to expose police departments as incompetent. And that was done, largely, out of ego.”
“Marginally,” Dreher protested. “Marginally for ego. A pattern had to be created, for the simple reason that it could be repeated, for repetition has strategic value. That police reputations were damaged in the process was a bonus. Mind you, an ingenious bonus, even if I do say so myself. Ego was not being served, Émile. You’ve got that wrong. Everything, everything, is purely strategic.”
“Bullshit.”
“Émile. Please. There’s a lady present. Besides, I’m the one holding the gun, remember?”
The conversation was allowing time to slide by, and that was all he cared about. He could tell though, that Dreher was enjoying himself. For the killer, prolonging the inevitable was a pleasure. He imagined that the man had conducted these conversations with each of his victims, explaining himself, pontificating, exulting in his genius for subterfuge and strategy, the whole time listening to their desperate pleas and laments. Taking his time to inflict the highest degree of psychological anguish, rather than physical pain, was a critical aspect pertaining to his style for murder.
“Vira was killed,” Cinq-Mars explained, “in the way that she was killed, because she was getting close.”
“That’s your fault, Cinq-Mars. Her blood is on your hands. Take that to the grave. Anything that happens to you today may be unfortunate, but it is well-deserved. You must agree.”
“My fault?” Cinq-Mars repeated.
“You and that fucker assistant of yours. Everardo Flores. Who is he anyway?”
He understood. “Had she interviewed people in Alabama, Vira would have gleaned more information about a self-appointed claims adjustor who promptly showed up on the doorsteps of storm victims who just happened to be in the FBI witness protection program. He then assassinated them. That’s all the pattern required. Staying behind in the attic was done for two reasons. Ego, which took pleasure from damaging the reputations of legitimate and solid officers of the law, and danger, a joy in itself.”
“Don’t forget now, hiding in the attic extends the pleasure of the kill.”
“Okay. Also, our killer is drawn to high-risk like the proverbial moth to the flame. Why else are you here today? You could have sent your Alabama killer, used him one more time. I assume that your plan is to eliminate him soon enough?”
Dreher mulled it over. “Actually,” he revealed, “that is the plan. And won’t I be the hero for that one? In a gun battle, most likely. I’ll kill the man responsible for slaying an FBI agent in Alabama and shooting the husband and wife team of Émile and Sandra Cinq-Mars all the way up in Canada. Such a shame. For the world to lose their revered detective. Are you surprised? It’s true. He’s here now. Not here here. But in the environment. Lives close by, actually. I hired a somewhat local. Upper New York State. So you see, as you may have guessed—”
“I have guessed. It’s Exit Strategy 101.”
“Oh, come on, give me a little more credit than that!”
“I won’t. I’m sorry. It’s too basic. Create a foil—”
“Over years! For years I had him waiting in the wings! It’s brilliant, Émile! Give me that much credit, at least! If you don’t, then I’ll know that you’re too ego-obsessed yourself to speak the truth where and when the truth is warranted.”
“So now you want the truth.” Cinq-Mars shook his head. And looked over at Sandra. To her, he said, “He wants the truth.” And back at Dreher. “You know what they say about the truth.”
Merlin took that moment to pull his head up a little, and he struggled on the cushions to push his front end upright. Sandra comforted him and kept him still. The movement though interested Rand Dreher.
“Did that dog eat all his food?”
“He doesn’t chow down as rapidly as some big dogs do. Anyway, you fed him early.”
“Then he might not expire. Too bad your own prognosis is decidedly more bleak. As for the truth, Émile, don’t kid yourself, I can take anything you can dish out. You, on the other hand, will melt if you hear what I know. But we don’t have all day. The time has come to get on with it.”
Cinq-Mars thought fast, to keep him interested in talking. “Didn’t you want to know how I knew that you were here when I got home?”
Briefly, he pointed with his free hand at him. “You’re right. I’m curious. What tipped you off? Educate me. I won’t want to make the same mistake twice.”
“Merlin tipped me off. That was your error. He left more food in his bowl than was there before I left the house. That told me that somebody visited. Also, his temperament seemed decidedly subdued. So, Rand, you were outwitted by a dog.”
Dreher chortled. “I suppose you expect me to be mortified by that insult? I’m far more mortified by your response. Look what you did. You took your wife and ran out to the barn. Why? That seems so stupid to me. Even when you thought someone was on the premises, you thought you’d be safe in the barn. Or is it because, like most people, you were too proud to act on your basic animal instinct? You needed proof before you were willing to run.”
“Something like that, I suppose,” Cinq-Mars conceded. “Unlike you, I don’t aspire to perfection in what I do. I just take what comes.”
“Émile! God! Don’t give me that humble-jumble crap! You’re a goddamn power-hungry, fear-mongering, asshole-reaming cunt of a detective and the vast majority of your peers say so. I checked you out, don’t forget, before this all began. There’s your public reputation, and then there’s your reputation according to those who know you. So don’t spoon-feed me any of your hyper-ego in the form of humility horse manure—no offense to horses—because I’m not buying it.”
“Fine. I didn’t run because—” He hesitated.
“Because why, Émile. Don’t be so damn proud. Share your ignorance with us lesser mortals.”
“Because I didn’t want to catch you. I wanted to outwit you.”
Popping back out of his chair, Rand Dreher waved his gun around, as if consumed by a rant and intending to theatrically deliver more upon the stage of their living room. But he stopped short, as if he understood in a trice that he was being baited.
Interpreting the change in him that way, Cinq-Mars switched tacks.
“I’ll grant you,” Émile said. “This is not about hating cops, although that’s at least a small part of it, and this is not about your ego, although that is a part of it, too. Has to be. But I’ll grant you, Rand, that neither of those things is compelling enough for a man like yourself. They are only the side benefits you’ve picked up over time, similar to getting an extra week’s vacation after putting in twenty years on the job, that sort of thing. So the real question here is, what’s your angle? Because—grant me this much intelligence, Rand, this much investigative acumen—you’re no bottom-feeder. I recall our talk about the swamp. That was a good talk. You were defending the intelligence of sludge—”
“Slime, actually,” Dreher corrected him.
“Slime. You indicated your sympathy for slime, and by osmosis for all beings bent to a criminal or warped mentality, yet you are not a bottom-feeder yourself. Don’t get me wrong. I’m in a difficult situation here, but I’m not sucking up to you. I’m too proud for that. So I’m telling you, I do not number you among the elite intelligentsia and certainly not among the angels. You have your horrific attributes—you’re a killer, Rand—but you don’t dwell in sl
ime. You may be sympathetic to their plight but you do not live among the swamp bugs. You’re in this for your own benefit. If I’m to die today, the least you can do is let me in on that part. What’s in it for you? What do you get out of all this?”
Standing above them both, the gun at his side, Rand Dreher gazed from one to the other. For the first time, his victims saw the killer in him. He had a finger on the trigger of his gun, but now, and really for the first time, he had his mind on the trigger of his intent. He was contemplating killing them soon, they could tell.
“Don’t overestimate me, Émile. Do you know why I kill couples the way I do? Hatred. It’s that simple. I hate couples. I hate that you don’t share your DNA, that you keep it in-house, so to speak. I hate that you presume to rise up out of the morass and swamp-muck to live behind your white picket fences and tidy wee homes. We should all be down in the swamp, Cinq-Mars, down low in the muck and mire, slurping each other’s shit. I hate all you shithead couples who presume to adapt to civility. Who have manners when you screw. It’s against fucking nature. I protest.”
He paced before them, and Sandra began to tremble.
“Out of respect for our fine chats, Émile,” Dreher went on, “I might grant you that dying wish. Why not? But first, let’s take care of business. Sandra, I’m going to ask you to stand and to face your husband. Let’s see if you can do so without making a fuss or falling over. It’ll be better that way, I promise.”
She did so reluctantly, feeling dizzy now, transported, as if this was not a real moment. Not a dream, but not a real time or place, either. What allowed her to remain upright, for she was surprised that she could, was Dreher moving away from her, not toward her, which gave her a measure of relief. But after he visited his coat he returned. Blocked by his wife’s body, Émile was not able to observe what the man extracted from a pocket, then he and his wife held to one another’s gaze, silently beseeching one another to be brave and to have faith. His gaze was meant to remind her that he had summoned help.
Dreher told Sandra, “Clasp a wrist behind your back with the other hand.”
She dreaded doing so, but he poked her with the pistol and she obeyed. He then bound her wrists tightly with what felt like thin strong cord—the treasure seized from his coat pocket—and she was ordered to remain standing.
“Émile. Your turn. Stand up.”
Doing so, he exhibited the posture of an older man with a failing back. He slowly straightened. Dreher ordered Sandra to sit in the hardbacked chair Émile abandoned, and she did so and he knotted Émile’s wrists behind him. Told to remain standing, he was relieved, given the cramping just above his hips.
Dreher chose to sit again.
“There’s something you must understand. I’ll tell you now so that you can deal with it, get over the shock, then make an informed decision. I know what your decision will be. How do I know, you ask?”
Not having a clue what he was driving at, Émile shrugged.
“Because everyone else has made exactly the same decision when offered the same identical choice.”
By everyone else, he presumed the man meant everyone he had slaughtered.
“What’s that?” Émile asked.
“When it comes time to cut off your ring finger—we’ll do it the old-fashioned way, not like in Alabama, so you will be dead first—yes, you may thank me for that—you’re welcome—when it comes time to slice and dice, Sandra will do it.”
“What?”
“What’s he talking about?” Sandra asked. A tremor entered her voice.
“Sorry, dear,” Dreher explained, “but you’re going to have to cut off Émile’s ring finger. End this fucking marriage once and for all.”
“I won’t. Émile!”
“Actually, you will. And don’t ask Émile to help. He’ll be dead by then. And anyway he’s tied up at the moment.”
“You fucking bag of crap.”
“The mouth on this girl, Émile. And you, some sort of good Catholic man. Do you know that your former colleagues call you the Pope? The ones who like you anyway. The other ones call you the Fucking Pope.”
“I’m not going to cut off his finger,” Sandra declared, finding her strength again.
Dreher smiled and returned to his feet again and paced in front of them, staying out of Émile’s kicking range. He allowed his calmness, his quietude, to parlay his menace. “I can understand how you might feel that way. And you do have a choice. Listen to your options first. Option number one, after I shoot him, you cut off his ring finger. After I shoot you, I’ll cut off yours. Then I’ll bury your two fingers together with your wedding rings in this sweet little graveyard I’ve got going. Down by a riverbank. Only the ring fingers of couples are buried there. Quite romantic, actually. The river flows by, day by day.”
“Oh God,” Sandra said. That he was monstrous and murderous had seeped through at the onset of their ordeal, but the breadth of his depravity struck home.
“That’s option one, which you say you won’t accept. It’s your choice, but that leaves us with option two. In this scenario, while he’s still alive, I saw off Émile’s head. You watch, and then, I saw off yours. Again, we’ll keep you alive for that.”
The couple gazed at each other. Tears flooded Sandra’s eyes that she couldn’t wipe away, and her shoulders and torso quivered violently now. She shook her head though, to try to persevere through this.
“Perhaps you understand now why option one has been the preferred choice, one hundred percent of the time. Should you renege on option one and refuse to honor your commitment after I shoot your husband, then we revert to hacking off your head. Hacking, of course, is the operative word. It’s not like I’m walking around with my own private guillotine. It’s a slow and difficult operation with second-rate tools. Whatever I can find in your kitchen, actually. Do either of you doubt my resolve in this matter?”
Reeling, Émile found it hard to think in any cogent way. “Yeah, actually,” he challenged Dreher. He had to keep him talking, keep him boasting, if necessary. “I do. In the past you’ve only cut off the fingers of dead people. That’s easier, I should think, than if someone’s alive and the blood is spurting everywhere. A neck, more difficult still. You might not have it in you, Rand. As I pointed out, you’re not a bottom-feeder. Don’t you agree with me?”
“But I dream about it, Émile. I can’t tell you how much. Anyway you’re wrong. Adele Lumen was still alive when I amputated her finger. I should have known she was still alive. Just didn’t believe it. But her hand bled more. I liked that. I still see it in my dreams. Émile, I will carry through on you and your wife’s decapitations if you want to test me. So go ahead. I’m begging you. Test me.”
Both Émile and Sandra endeavored to hold their heads up, Sandra weeping, Émile trying to remember to breathe. He struggled for a deeper breath, felt his lungs collapsing. He remembered his episode in New Orleans, when a panic attack had overwhelmed him, but here he needed to maintain, through all this madness, his composure. Even unto death. His hope, dissipating, still clung to that necessity.
“She’ll do option one,” he managed to say, his voice garbled.
Sandra nodded when Dreher looked to her for confirmation.
“Good. Good. This is important to me, actually, that you accept your roles as co-conspirators in one another’s removals. I don’t know why, I just prefer it that way.”
Removals.
Émile took another shaky breath, his lungs like twin spikes inside him as they expanded. “So, Rand. If you’re not going to spare us, at least tell us, what’s your angle? You said you would.”
Dreher placed his right hand, which held the pistol, over his heart. “Happy to, Émile. Some criminals, I believe, and I’m sure you’ve seen this throughout your career, some criminals are only too happy to get caught. Why do you suppose that is, Émile?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist. I can’t say.”
“Take a wild stab at it. Entertain me and your life is ex
tended for those few minutes. People like doing that, I’ve found, extending their pathetic lives that last little speck. Gives them hope, I suppose, even though it’s fleeting. People want to believe that rescue is on the way when so clearly it isn’t. They want to think that God will strike me down. Or that, miracle of miracles, I’ll change my mind. By the way, your wrists are tied, but I’ve left your fingers free. Do you want your prayer beads?”
He waited for Cinq-Mars to reply.
“It’s possible,” Émile began slowly, “that some men can’t really keep a secret. That they need for other people to know what it is they’ve done. In their minds, I suppose, they think of it as what they’ve accomplished. Even, in some cases, they want people to know who they are. Sometimes, men are proud of their crimes, and want other people to know that they were the ones who pulled them off. Later, they’ll regret being caught, but that’s just how things go.”
“I believe you’re onto something, Émile. I want people to know who I am. And what I’ve done. But confession, that’s out of the question. Incarceration? Let’s just say that I’m not going there. Still, I do experience a need for people to know. So, I tell them. I get it off my chest. Afterward, of course, I kill them.”
They waited. What they did know, between them, was that death was not imminent, not as long as he had a story to relate or a boast to advance.
“Émile, trust me, you’re going to love this.” He waved his gun with his rising excitement. “It’s just so cool. Inside the FBI, we have found a way, incrementally, but impressively, to augment our budget. At least, to circumvent certain budgetary constraints. The consensus being, if criminals’ funds are confiscated, why not use them to further our pressure against crime? But this is where it gets interesting. Within that program, a few have found ways for their personal aggrandizement. I’ll leave the rationalizing to them. Now that’s a big word I’m using but I prefer it to greed. But it’s true. Some people who walk this earth are atrociously greedy. I’m not naming names, you understand. By our own careful accounting,” and Dreher spoke ponderously now, as though his excitement required him to linger over his words to fully satisfy his impending pleasure, “we participate in, oh, nearly eight percent—” He shifted his attention to Sandra to augment his point, his eyes opening wide. “That might not sound like a lot, but trust me, it’s huge. Or, as you would say with that mouth of yours, it’s fucking huge!” Then his attention reverted primarily to Émile again. “Eight percent of the entire marijuana trade in the continental United Sates of America. We control. The supply end. Like you say, I’m not a bottom-feeder getting my hands dirty with distribution. But we grow weed, baby. In the cornfields of Nebraska. And Kansas. As far east as Kentucky. As far north as Idaho and Montana. We’ve got Mormons growing our pot amid their corn in Utah.” He laughed at that titbit. “We’ve proven that it’s less dangerous to grow pot under my auspices than for the mob, and we can protect the honest farmer against the mob. Not that anybody knows its for the Bureau, only that somebody seems to have power and the ability to move mountains. Even the mountains of Utah. So it’s a win-win-win situation all around. If I benefit to a certain extent, then so be it, mere humble servant that I am. I come from that milieu, you understand. We’re talking about my people. I was recruited into the FBI while my daddy was growing corn. But that wasn’t his only cash crop, if you know what I mean. He had a cash crop that essentially wasn’t very different from growing cash. Instead of threshing corn, although we did that too for the sake of appearances, we were mainly into plucking greenbacks from the stem. So you see, it’s all good.”